


knickers in a twist

by technicolourbeat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Boys in Skirts, Crossdressing, Draco Malfoy in a Skirt, Fluff and Humor, Fuckbuddies, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lace Panties, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Reconciliation, Riding, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top Harry Potter, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 86,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolourbeat/pseuds/technicolourbeat
Summary: Draco loses a bet to Pansy and Blaise which leaves him wearing a skirt for a whole week. Harry discovers something about himself.





	1. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started out as a small idea before becoming a typical 8th year fic with plot lol.
> 
> warning: there are brief mentions of self-harm in this work. it is much later and i will post warnings in the notes before the chapter it is featured in, as well as a brief summary of the scene at the end of the chapter for people to check in case you need it. anyways enjoy !
> 
> EDIT (04/21/20): there is now a russian translation of this fic ! here is a [link](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9192924) (the link leads to another site that isn't ao3). a huge huge thank you to yangeldorf for this translation!!

An unexpected heat wave hits Hogwarts early in April, and it’s a nightmare.   
  
When the heat had initially begun to roll in, it hadn’t been so bad. Generally tolerable, Harry had managed to get by with the use of cooling charms. But it soon became evident that the heat had no plans of leaving, or diminishing. No, in fact it had risen exponentially in temperature, leaving cooling charms useless and an entire student body and staff suffering.   
  
At this point, people were getting desperate. Quidditch games and practices were cancelled by Madam Pomfrey’s orders due to the influx of players in the hospital wing for dehydration or sunstroke. The news had gutted Harry initially. While he and the other eighth years were prohibited from participating in house competitions this year, the new quidditch ban had fallen over their usual games during free periods as well. It had proven to be a good distraction initially in the year, before becoming a general habit and mode of entertainment for Harry. It hadn’t hurt much either that it allowed for all that so-called inter-house unity McGonagall had been so adamant on lately.   
  
In addition, any outdoor classes were cut a whole ten minutes shorter and any students attending were advised to wear light clothing and to stay properly hydrated throughout the class period. That rule, Harry doesn’t mind so much. He loves being able to leave his tie undone or to have his collar open, and he loves the extra time given for free periods even moreso.   
  
But it still doesn’t compare to the unbearable heat that Harry currently finds himself griping over. The Great Hall is one of the few places in Hogwarts that is seemingly unaffected by the simmering weather, but there is still an indubitable warmth that blankets the room like a sheet fresh out of the dryer.   
  
Harry takes a sip of his water, forgoing the usual juice, and relishing the cold and refreshing feeling that washes over him. It had been advised to him and Ron by Hermione to lay off the sugary drinks, so as to better stay hydrated. It still didn’t stop Harry or Ron from sneaking the occasional glass of pumpkin juice at dinner, but Hermione had been kind enough to act as though she hadn’t seen them.   
  
Breakfast is a much more muted affair than usual, and Harry knows he has the heat to blame. All of the eighth years are sitting in relative quietness, preferring to focus on eating rather than exhaust their already dwindling energy. It really was awful how lazy the heat made Harry feel.   
  
Harry watches Ron spear his fork into a piece of sausage. “Why is this happening now? I swear, Hogwarts has never had this kind of problem before,” Ron mutters. He still doesn’t eat the sausage and Harry thinks the heat might have melted even Ron’s appetite.   
  
”The castle is damaged,” Hermione says with a sigh. She places a finger on her book to keep her place before flicking a glance up to Ron. “Usually, the castle’s built-in charms would prevent us from feeling any extreme weather changes. Unfortunately, not all of the damage from the battle has been completely fixed. I think there would be several years before Hogwarts is back in tip top shape.”   
  
Ron finally lifts the sausage to his mouth before dropping it back down. “Wow. My girlfriend is so bloody brilliant.”   
  
Hermione smiles softly at him before shaking her head and returning to her book. Ron merely continues to stare at her, expression dreamy. Harry rolls his eyes. Fantastic, the heat has melted not only his appetite, but his brain as well.   
  
Harry is about to ask Hermione about how she knows this, but stops as he hears soft giggles from the end of the table. His head turns to see Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, the only eighth years not rendered to a pile of near-sludge by the heat. Everyone around them looks downright miserable while they cackle on in glee, and honestly, Harry thinks no one should be so happy in such terrible weather.   
  
He scowls before noticing that their attentions are focused elsewhere. He lets his eyes follow their gaze, all the way to the doors of the Great Hall. Just entering now is Draco Malfoy, looking rather ridiculous in his school robes. He stands out in the entire room as the only one still deigning to wear his school robes amidst the intense warmth. He does not appear to be sweating however, his face a cool mask as he approaches Parkinson and Zabini.   
  
Parkinson and Zabini’s laughter gets louder, impossibly, and at this point, they are the only ones audible in the hall. Harry wonders what’s so funny about the situation. Surely the heat hadn’t made them that delirious, had it? Or perhaps it was the sight of Malfoy still dressed in stuffy robes while everyone else had given up on all pretenses of looking the least bit formal. Harry looks on in interest, waiting for Malfoy to do something, anything. Harry thinks he might even scold his friends for being so loud.   
  
Instead, Malfoy remains silent and reaches up for the clasp of his robes. Oh, good, Harry thinks, maybe Malfoy won’t get heat stroke now. He keeps his eyes trained on Malfoy as the young man proceeds to push the robes off of his shoulders, allowing them to fall onto the bench beside him. Zabini and Parkinson are howling at this point, leaving Harry perplexed, until he sees it.   
  
And it seems that the entirety of the hall sees it too. A series of wolf-whistles and cat-calls are heard all around as all attention is focused on Malfoy. But it’s not just any Malfoy. It’s Malfoy. Wearing a skirt.   
  
Harry feels his jaw drop at the sight. Malfoy is dressed in his usual uniform top—crisp white button up and tie colored a deep purple, the color now worn by eighth years. But instead of the usual grey trousers, Malfoy is wearing a skirt. A short, grey skirt that ends at just the top of Malfoy’s thighs, exposing his long, pale, slender legs. It’s flowy, an exact copy to the skirts worn by Hogwarts’ female student body. But it doesn’t fit the same, instead framing Draco’s narrow hips and resting atop his cream colored thighs in a way that Harry could only describe as... Teasing. Tantalizing.   
  
Harry’s throat feels exceptionally dry as he watches Malfoy merely roll his eyes before taking his seat beside his snickering friends. As he sits, his legs swing over the bench in a graceful movement of lean and pale muscle that has Harry scrabbling for another sip of his water. Harry’s thoughts feel like the mess of scrambled eggs on Ron’s plate and he wonders if his brains have been fried as well. Although, he isn’t quite sure if it’s from the general heat or another type of heat entirely.   
  
His eyes stay on Malfoy throughout breakfast. For all the ruckus Malfoy had created, he acts perfectly normal throughout his meal. As if just under the table he isn’t wearing a woman’s skirt. The thought alone makes something not unlike pleasure spike through Harry and he isn’t sure how to take that. Just then, Draco lifts a sausage to his mouth and closes his lips around just the tip, and breathing becomes near impossible for Harry. He tears his gaze away, trying to focus on anything but the thought of Malfoy’s slim legs or shiny mouth.   
  
Why the bloody fuck was Malfoy wearing a skirt? He acts so... so casual about it too, conversing quietly with his friends and Harry thinks he might lose it. He’s fully hard now and his fingers are gripping the edge of table so tightly he thinks he might break a chunk of wood off.   
  
Hermione eyes him. “Harry? Are you alright?”   
  
“Fine,” he grits out.    
  
She doesn’t look convinced, but Harry doesn’t care. He makes the mistake of looking over at Malfoy again and accidentally locks eyes. They stare at each other for a quick moment, Malfoy’s expression unreadable and Harry most likely looking like a right prat. Malfoy looks away first, returning to his conversation and Harry groans inwardly. This could not be happening to him. Whatever this was, some sort of late, repressed sexual awakening or whatever, Harry could not be dealing with it. He glares at his plate of unfinished toast as though it might reveal the answers as to just why Malfoy in a skirt is affecting him so.   
  
The rest of the day is no better.   
  
It appears that for all intents and purposes, Malfoy  _ likes _ wearing his skirt. Even moreso, he likes showing it off. He doesn’t put on his robes again after breakfast and Harry is simultaneously grateful and frustrated. He’s had to readjust himself in his trousers more times than he can count by second period, and he already knows he’ll have an eternal hard on for the day.   
  
Because Malfoy doesn’t walk the same way he usually does. Or rather, he does, but the skirt adds an extra sway to his hips that Harry finds his eyes glued to. It’s a subtle change in his movements, but just as graceful as any of his other ones. It drives Harry mad in a way that this already maddening heat could never do. Honestly, he wonders why no one’s told the git off yet. No teachers have made any mention of the skirt yet, not even in the Great Hall when he had initially walked in. The students hadn’t said much either aside from the teasing jabs from friends and cat-calling during breakfast. Harry feels like he’s the only one who seems to have a problem with it.   
  
It’s worse during third period. On Mondays, third period belongs to Potions class. Professor Slughorn was initially gracious and patient when it came to Harry, having gained a soft spot for him during sixth year. His patience had dwindled considerably as the year drew on, however, as he began to realize that Harry was by no means the potions expert he had once been led to believe. Harry doesn’t have the heart to confess to Slughorn about Snape’s old potions textbook.   
  
Slughorn is especially lacking patience now, clearly irritated by both Harry’s incompetence and the disgusting heat of the room. Even the dungeons had not been safe, their usual updraft having been obliterated by the persisting heat.   
  
“Please, Mr. Potter, do be more careful,” Slughorn tuts. He sweeps his gaze over Harry and Ron’s work, eyes narrowing. “I believe those crocodile teeth should be a more... fine dust. Right now, all you have is gravel.”   
  
Harry grits his teeth and nods, desperate to get Slughorn out of his space. For the entire year, Harry has been partnered with Ron for potions. It hadn’t been advised by both Slughorn and Hermione, but they figured they could do well enough. And well enough they did, until today. Once Slughorn leaves, Harry refocuses on the table before him.   
  
Standing in front of Harry’s workspace are partners Zabini and Malfoy. Zabini seems to be measuring some liquid, which confuses Harry for a moment because he doesn’t recall ever having to measure a liquid of that color for this potion, but Harry isn’t interested in him. No, he’s interested in Malfoy, whose back is turned to Harry and giving Harry the most delicious view of his arse.   
  
Admittedly, the flowy material doesn’t reveal much in terms of shape, but it still does something to Harry that he cannot put a name to. The swell of Malfoy’s bum causes the skirt to hitch up just slightly in the back, lifting a tiny bit higher to reveal just the sliver of the crease connecting Malfoy’s thighs to his buttocks. If the skirt lifted any more, Malfoy’s arse would be exposed and the thought sends a thrill down Harry’s spine.   
  
As if reading Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy reaches his hands down to tug at his skirt, lowering it until the crease disappears entirely and Harry feels a mortifying amount of disappointment at the change of visual. It doesn’t stop him from still looking, and it’s just entirely Malfoy’s fault that Harry and Ron’s potion turns out rubbish.   
  
Herbology class proves to be torture with the high stools and high desks in the greenhouses. Harry can’t help but be entranced by the way the skirt falls over Draco’s lap, inching higher now that he’s sat down. Harry’s thankful that all Professor Sprout does today is lecture; he doesn’t think he could handle focusing on anything on-hands at the moment.   
  
Harry’s breath hitches as he sees Draco lift a leg and cross it over the other, the skirt falling away to give way to another inch of skin. A dirty part of Harry thinks of how it would be to be able to look up that skirt. He thinks that if he were shorter, or perhaps crouched, he would have a perfect view up Malfoy’s skirt.   
  
Blood rushes to his cock at the thought. What did he even expect to see? Would the sight of Malfoy in briefs even be as arousing? Or maybe... Maybe he wouldn’t be wearing pants at all. Maybe he’d be starkers under and that particular thought makes Harry shiver despite the warmth of the greenhouse. The thought of Malfoy walking around the school in that skirt, wearing nothing under...   
  
Harry shuts his eyes tight. What was wrong with him? He had never even thought about these kind of things before, much more thought about Malfoy that way. But Harry thinks that with the way Malfoy looked and moved, it would be impossible for Harry to ever ignore.   
  
Things continue on for the rest of the day in a pattern—Malfoy sits in class and Harry stares. He tries to be subtle, he really does, but he cannot for the life of him ever take his eyes off of Malfoy. It is as though Harry’s body has convinced itself that if he even dared to look away for a second, he’d die. And Harry thinks he could sort of agree with the statement.   
  
Harry’s last class of the day is Defense Against the Dark Arts. The new professor for the year is a short and loud woman Harry has come to know as Professor Bautista. Harry comes into class fully expecting to sit through another hour of torment, staring at Malfoy, but is surprised to find the room completely devoid of tables and chairs. Instead, there are mats placed all over the floors and Harry realizes that they are to be practicing duelling today.   
  
The thought fills his gut with excitement. They haven’t practiced duelling for a good month now, and Harry was itching for a good go. Hermione credited it to restlessness as a side effect of the war, and Harry would agree, if he didn’t hate the implications so much. But what really had him excited, what had his blood pumping and head feeling light, is the thought of Malfoy dueling.   
  
He hadn’t ever thought about it in this way when the girls duelled. However, the girls' skirts had always been on the much more modest side, reaching the knees or the middle of their thighs at the very most. But the height of Malfoy’s skirt is bordering indecent and Harry is, admittedly, very interested in seeing how it would work while Malfoy duelled.   
  
They are separated into partners and switched off at different intervals by Bautista. This time, Harry does not allow himself to get so distracted, determined not to let any of his partners get the best of him. But despite this, out of the corner of his eye, he still catches sight of Malfoy duelling. He moves the same way he normally does during practice duels—lithe and graceful, twirling and all fine wand movements. His skirt flares out from him, but just barely, as though it were being held down by some invisible barrier. Harry figures out by Malfoy’s third partner switch that the skirt has been charmed. It swishes and sways, but never lifts higher, always teasing.   
  
Harry casts a final expelliarmus that hits Ernie Macmillan’s wand just as Bautista’s sharp voice calls out, “Alright, last partner switch!”   
  
Harry gives Macmillan an apologetic grin before returning his wand. Macmillan merely sighs, clearly having resigned himself to being beaten by the best dueller in class, and walks off to his next rotation. Harry does so as well, turning around and walking to the next mat.   
  
He nearly stops dead when he sees Malfoy standing there, looking just the tiniest bit ruffled from his previous duels. His chest is heaving and a light sheen of sweat covers his forehead and temples. The edges of his hair are dark and damp with sweat, turning it into a spectacularly average color of blonde that Harry isn’t used to seeing on the other man. His uniform is still refined, hardly a wrinkle in sight and still buttoned all the way up and sleeves fully down. Then there is, of course, the damned skirt that is still hanging from his hips and raised at an entirely inappropriate length.   
  
Harry knows from the get go that this is a mistake. Malfoy doesn’t acknowledge him past a curt nod, as he always has done to Harry since the beginning of the year. It frustrates Harry to no end, the complete lack of reaction from Malfoy this year, and now Harry thinks it may stem from something else.   
  
They ready their wands and step the appropriate paces away from each other before beginning.   
  
Harry strikes first, throwing a stupefy in Malfoy’s general direction. He misses entirely, but Malfoy still puts up a  _ protego _ that blocks the spell. Harry continues on with a barrage of spells, and Malfoy blocks every single one of them. Malfoy is calm and collected, eyebrows drawn into a focused expression as he puts another shield up. Harry’s eyes lower to Malfoy’s skirt and he feels himself sweating harder than usual.   
  
At the sight of another shield, Harry throws the hardest  _ bombarda _ he can. Malfoy’s shield shatters completely, shards of magical glass flying everywhere before disappearing mid air. Harry watches as the force of the explosion causes a slight wind, one that feathers at the hem of Malfoy’s skirt and lifts the body just slightly—   
  
Harry registers the stunning spell aimed at him much too slowly and only manages to put up a fragile shield at the last second. As expected, the brittle quality of the shield doesn’t hold up, and while Harry is not stunned, the force of the spell knocks him off of his feet and onto his back. In an instant, Malfoy descends on him and a wand is pointed at his neck.   
  
Harry feels a weight settle on his hips and he opens his eyes to the sight of Malfoy towering over him, grey eyes startlingly stormy as he stares into Harry’s face. It’s such a compromising position, or maybe Harry just feels that it is for himself. Malfoy is straddling Harry’s hips, skirt draped wonderfully over his thighs and Harry’s torso. They’re breathing hard, and Harry knows that for Malfoy, it’s from exhaustion. Harry, on the other hand, can’t think. All the blood in his brain rushes down south and  _ oh, Merlin, this is so, so hot _ . He silently prays that Malfoy can’t tell how hard he is.   
  
“I swear it’s usually harder,” Malfoy mutters and Harry freezes before realizing that Malfoy is not, in fact, referring to his current state of arousal. Harry’s eyes follow a drop of sweat that travels from Malfoy’s forehead, to the tip of his pointy nose.   
  
“Just—distracted, Malfoy,” Harry says under his breath. Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed.   
  
“Hm. I’ll say.”   
  
Harry’s response dies on his tongue as Bautista yells out, “Alright, students, end of class! Good work today!”   
  
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Malfoy lifts himself from Harry. He does so carelessly, legs wobbling as he gets to his feet. As he does so, Harry continues to stare and manages to catch a glimpse under the skirt. Harry swallows dryly at the sight and realizes that not only is Malfoy wearing a skirt, but lacy knickers under as well. Black, lacy women’s knickers that has Harry’s head spinning.   
  
He gets up and makes a quick escape to the loo before frantically tugging himself off to thoughts of Malfoy in a skirt and knickers.   
  


___   
  


  
Harry yawns and flips back to the previous page of his textbook. He is sitting in the eighth year common room, doing his best to revise for the potion he has to remake tomorrow. It’s meant to loosen one’s tongue, not as potent as veritaserum, and certainly not as accurate. Hermione had admonished him and Ron thoroughly for their poor work today, claiming that the potion had been one of the easiest of the year. Ron had looked doubtful but Harry wouldn’t have known, he hadn’t even paid attention to it for more than half the time in class.   
  
When Harry had suggested reviewing the potion to Ron, the ginger had snorted in Harry’s face and said  _ sure, mate _ before leaving the common room. It wasn’t uncommon for the eighth years to be out and about at such a late hour, what with all the leniency on rules for them now. Some remained on as prefects and were still out on duty, leaving only Harry in the common room. He figured some might still be in their dorms or already asleep, but that was unlikely seeing as curfew for the younger students had just barely begun.   
  
Harry is stuck on a particularly confusing paragraph on the properties of crocodile parts when he hears someone come down from the boy’s dorms. At first, he doesn’t look up, thinking the person may be on their way out, but the person only moves closer. Harry looks up in time to see Malfoy, still dressed in a crisp white uniform shirt tucked into a grey skirt, sit on the chair opposite of the couch Harry sits on.   
  
Harry gulps. Malfoy crosses his legs and leans back into his cushioned chair before pulling open the book he had brought with him and reading. Focusing on potions had already been a rather difficult feat, but with Malfoy just sitting there, Harry knows it’s a futile effort.   
  
And so Harry silently sends a sorry to Hermione and stares. He realizes that Malfoy is currently barefoot, not an unusual thing to see in the common rooms, but it is the first time he’s seen Malfoy dressed anything but formally. Harry’s gaze travels up from Malfoy’s bony feet to his slender ankles and eventually to his long, lean legs. Harry’s eyes rake over the pale skin exposed, appreciating the enticing sight of the skirt shifting higher onto Malfoy’s thighs. Harry’s half hard already, and his arousal only heightens as he thinks about the pair of women’s knickers hiding under that skirt, just past Malfoy’s tightly crossed legs.   
  
“You’re staring loudly.”   
  
Harry hears buzzing in his ears. “What?”   
  
“You’re staring loudly,” Malfoy repeats. He doesn’t look up from his book, but it’s clear who he’s speaking to. “And it’s bothering my reading.”   
  
Harry licks his lips and his eyes shoot up to focus on Malfoy’s face. He doesn’t look like he wants to kill Harry—which Harry considers as a win—just more irritated than anything else. As if Harry’s staring really is audible.   
  
“I-I wasn’t staring,” Harry argues, and it sounds weak even to his ears.    
  
Finally, Malfoy does look at Harry, looking at him from over the top of his book. Harry reads the title,  _ Magical Theory’s Unsolved Cases _ , and fights back a snort. Only Malfoy would want to read such material for fun. And maybe Hermione.   
  
“Sure you weren’t,” Malfoy finally says. His eyes flick back to his book and it’s as though the conversation never happened.   
  
Then, Malfoy uncrosses his legs, lifting them high enough for Harry to catch another glimpse at the black lace, before it’s obscured by Malfoy’s crossed legs once again. Harry feels the temperature of the room rise.   
  
Harry clears his throat. “So. The skirt.” Malfoy hums. Harry figures that it meant to go ahead. “Uh, why’ve you been wearing a skirt?”   
  
Malfoy shrugs and throws Harry a blank look. “My arse looks fantastic in it.”   
  
Harry has to bite his tongue to stop himself from agreeing.   
  
“No,” Malfoy admits. “I lost a bet with Blaise and Pansy.”   
  
“Oh. I see.”   
  
“Why?” Malfoy questions, eyes narrowing. He seems to hesitate for a moment before putting his book to the side and angling a look at Harry. “Have a problem with it, Potter?”   
  
Harry feels himself flush. “Er, no.”   
  
His heart nearly stops as Malfoy proceeds to rise from his seat. He begins to stalk slowly towards Harry, and it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. The material of the skirt swishes with every step and Harry is hypnotized.   
  
“I have a feeling you do. You’ve been staring at me all day,” Malfoy insists. He finally stops before Harry and when Harry doesn’t answer, he crosses his arms. “Well?”   
  
“I guess you can say I have a problem with it,” Harry finally says, tongue feeling heavy and numb in his mouth.   
  
Malfoy’s face forms a sneer. “Didn’t take you as the judgemental type.”   
  
“No, no,” Harry corrects himself. “I don’t have a problem with it like that. It’s just...” Harry pauses, trying to find his words. It’s just… What? Malfoy is looking at him in what Harry can only describe as anger, perhaps even revulsion, clearly repulsed at the thought of Harry being the slightest bit disapproving of Malfoy wearing a skirt. Which is just bloody ridiculous because Harry was not disapproving at all, the complete opposite of disapproval, in fact.   
  
Before he can think to take them back, he blurts out the words, “You look, uh, really good in a skirt.”   
  
The way Malfoy’s face morphs from a look of disgust into what Harry thinks is shyness would have been hilarious if not for how painfully hard Harry is at the moment. Malfoy’s cheeks are tinted pink now, and steadily growing darker in color as the seconds pass. Harry watches in fascination as the color blooms across his skin, reaching even the tips of his ears.   
  
“What?” Malfoy whispers quietly, lips barely moving.   
  
Harry nods and swallows. He’s already in too deep and he knows that, knows he should back away now. But here Malfoy is, standing before him and looking shy and hot and Harry can feel his self control slipping from him.   
  
“I said,” Harry says, voice a little more steady, “that you look really good in a skirt.”   
  
“Oh.” Malfoy looks conflicted, clearly weighing the options before him. Harry recognizes the indecision and scrambles to find a way to prolong this. He’s already gotten so far and damn it all if Harry doesn’t manage to find some sort of relief for any of these feelings.   
  
“Can I touch you?” he asks, unthinkingly.   
  
Malfoy lets out a shaky breath before nodding, “Um. Yes.”   
  
For a moment, Harry is shocked. He isn’t sure what he had expected as a reaction, and while he had hoped, he hadn’t actually thought Malfoy would acquiesce. When Harry doesn’t move immediately, he sees the panic in Malfoy’s eyes. As Malfoy begins to step away, Harry reaches out and runs a hand down Malfoy’s thigh. Malfoy stops immediately, standing stock still as Harry begins to feel up his thigh. The skin is smooth, as Harry had fantasized, and sparsely covered in thin, blonde hair. At first glance, Malfoy looks virtually hairless, but Harry now knows better.   
  
He continues to rub his hand up and down Malfoy’s thigh, unsure on how to continue. Under Harry’s fingers, Malfoy’s leg trembles slightly. Harry stops his hand at just the end of the skirt and rubs his thumb there reassuringly, trying to soothe Malfoy. At the motion, Malfoy moves forward, all the way until he’s straddling Harry’s lap.   
  
Harry groans at the weight of Malfoy’s hips settling onto his own, and another groan comes when he feels Malfoy’s groin brush against his own. His mind feels as though it has gone blank despite the flurry of thoughts that have now flown into Harry’s mind. Harry’s hands move to Malfoy’s hips, clutching firmly. Malfoy nods eagerly at the motion, his own hands flying to grapple at Harry’s biceps before moving his hips experimentally. A low moan chokes out of Harry as Malfoy grinds down onto his erection.   
  
“Oh, Merlin,” Malfoy moans into Harry’s neck, breath hot.   
  
“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” Harry whispers into Malfoy’s ear. The flesh there pinks and Harry flicks out a tongue, just wanting to taste. “Looking so... so good like this. So hot.”   
  
Malfoy sucks in a breath. “So, guys in skirts is what gets the Chosen One going, huh?”   
  
“Shut up,” Harry croaks, cheeks reddening.   
  
Malfoy tries to smirk at Harry, but the image is ruined by how his lip trembles just slightly. “Make me,” he whispers.   
  
Harry leans in and presses his lips to Malfoy’s own. Malfoy moans, slipping his arms around Harry’s shoulders to pull him closer. The heat of Malfoy’s mouth is intoxicating, Harry comes to find. He licks his way into Malfoy’s mouth, pleased with the noises Malfoy makes as Harry runs his tongue along Malfoy’s own. Malfoy smells and tastes of cinnamon and just a hint of vanilla that fuels the lust in Harry’s veins. Soon enough he’s lost in a heady mix of  _ Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy _ and Harry isn’t sure how long he can last.   
  
Harry pulls away for a breath. Malfoy looks wrecked, and all they had done was kiss. His lips are red and glossy with spit, his hair already strewn haphazardly across his forehead, and eyes lidded in a haze of want. Harry licks his lips at the sight.   
  
“Can I reach up your skirt?” Harry asks, voice a little hoarse. Malfoy doesn’t speak, simply nods fervently and pumps his hips again.   
  
Harry’s head falls forward to the crook of Malfoy’s neck as his hands wander, exploring up and under Malfoy’s skirt. His hands seem to have a singular focus, immediately reaching around and groping the soft flesh of Malfoy’s arse through the lacy material of his knickers. Malfoy moans and pushes back against Harry’s hands, clearly asking for more. The begging is strange and so unlike Malfoy that Harry can’t help but chuckle against the thin material of Malfoy’s shirt. Harry lifts his head to mouth at the flesh exposed, darting his tongue out to taste before latching his mouth onto the sensitive skin, leaving Malfoy hissing and whining.   
  
Harry keeps one hand kneading Malfoy’s arse while the other reaches back around to the front. His fingers never leave the feel of Malfoy’s knickers, the pads of his fingers brushing over the thin fabric as he drags his hand from Malfoy’s arse to his hip to the bulge of his front. Harry can’t see anything, just feel what’s under Malfoy’s skirt and the thought thrills him. He moves his hand to cup Malfoy’s erection, feeling the thickness there. Malfoy throws his head back, chest heaving and panting, when Harry flexes his fingers, thumbing over the head of Malfoy’s cock.   
  
Harry recognizes how close the two of them are, just how easily the both of them could come from just this alone, and realizes he doesn’t want that.   
  
“Get up,” Harry says suddenly. Malfoy raises his head and looks at Harry in a daze, confused by the sudden request. There’s the beginnings of a love bite forming on his neck and Harry swallows thickly. He repeats himself, voice softer this time. “Come on, stand up for me.”   
  
Surprisingly, Malfoy obeys. He pushes himself off Harry’s lap and stands once again. Despite the flowy shape of the skirt, Harry can see the clear bulge of Malfoy’s erection from under it. Harry sucks in a breath and drinks in the sight of Malfoy standing there, looking sort of awkward and unsure of himself, clearly waiting for Harry’s next instructions. Harry’s cock twitches at the thought of Malfoy being so willing, so ready to do anything Harry asks.   
  
“Take off your panties,” Harry breathes.    
  
Malfoy’s cheeks color even moreso at the request and Harry thinks for a moment that Malfoy won’t comply. He is pleased to see that in the next moment, Malfoy does obey, reaching under his skirt and tugging at the knickers. Harry watches Malfoy slide the lacy underwear down his thighs and calves until they reach his feet and he steps out of them. Without saying a word, Harry reaches out and Malfoy hands the knickers to him, face turning even more red as Harry stuffs the underwear into his trouser pocket.   
  
Shakily, Harry lifts his hands and begins to unbutton his trousers. Once he has the zip down, he notices Malfoy’s eyes, grey and unyielding, completely focused on the movement of his hands. Harry gulps but doesn’t feel deterred, instead feeling emboldened by how Malfoy’s eyes can’t seem to leave him. Hands much less shaky now, Harry reaches into his pants and pulls his cock out. The air of the common room hits the sensitive skin, making him hiss as his cock curls up and onto his stomach.   
  
Malfoy’s eyes are wide and staring, transfixed by the sight that is Harry’s cock. The evident interest makes Harry’s cock leak a dribble of precome and Malfoy lets out a small whimper that Harry can understand.   
  
“Come on, back on my lap,” Harry says softly. Malfoy obliges and moves to sit again. This time, his erection pokes out from beneath his skirt and barely brushes Harry’s own erection. The sight makes Harry feel a little dizzy. He’s seen other pricks before, a side effect of having to dorm with boys for so many years. And Harry’s seen them in those magazines too, the ones that he often hides under his bed in fear of Ron or any of his other mates seeing them. But Malfoy’s cock is nothing at all like that, all flushed red and long and elegant looking. And really, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever described anyone’s prick as looking elegant but Malfoy’s is. Of course it is.   
  
Harry licks his lips, staring at Malfoy’s already weeping cock for a moment longer before looking back into Malfoy’s eyes. “Can I finger you?”   
  
Malfoy nods much too eagerly. “Yes, please.”   
  
The sincerity in Malfoy’s voice only adds to Harry’s arousal, which is already through the roof. He mutters a lubrication spell and a thick, slippery substance coats Harry’s fingers in seconds. He nudges Malfoy to lift his hips, which the other man does so easily. Malfoy shifts his knees on the plush couch and grips Harry’s shoulders, leaning forward closely and filling Harry’s senses with cinnamon.   
  
The skirt obstructs Harry’s view, and so he runs a finger down Malfoy’s crack first, slowly mapping out Malfoy’s backside. Malfoy shivers at Harry’s touch, legs trembling once Harry finally finds Malfoy’s hole. At first, Harry merely rubs at it, letting the pad of his finger slowly circle around Malfoy’s rim. Harry keeps his eyes on Malfoy’s face, watching as the blonde shuts his eyes tightly, face clenching as Harry continues to rub at his hole.    
  
“Is this okay?” Harry murmurs.   
  
Malfoy doesn’t open his eyes. “You haven’t even done anything,” Malfoy retorts, voice sounding strained and possibly even whiny. Harry rolls his eyes and proceeds to slowly push in one finger.   
  
Malfoy’s eyes fly open and he lets out a choked gasp, hands tightening around Harry’s shoulders. Harry panics for a moment, thinking that maybe he had hurt Malfoy, but his panic subsides when Malfoy begins to move himself up and back down onto Harry’s finger. His movements are a bit awkward, but just as much enthusiastic, hips pumping up and down. The sight makes Harry moan before he steadies Malfoy’s hips and begins to properly finger him. He presses in a second finger and Malfoy takes it well, albeit with a little initial resistance. Harry scissors his fingers, doing his best to stretch Malfoy out. By the third finger, Malfoy is a moaning mess, grinding his arse down onto Harry’s fingers for more.   
  
Harry pulls his fingers out with a faint pop and holds onto Malfoy’s hips, positioning him over Harry’s cock. “You okay?”   
  
Malfoy shoots Harry a look of annoyance and for a second, Harry forgets about what they’re currently doing. “Just let me fuck you, Potter.”   
  
Harry is about to make a retort on how he seems to be doing the fucking in this case, but the words never leave his mouth as Malfoy reaches down to grab Harry’s cock and lowers himself.   
  
Malfoy is tight, impossibly so, slick walls swallowing the head of Harry’s cock greedily. The feeling punches the air out of Harry’s lungs. Malfoy continues to sink down, slowly and inch by inch. His breathing is laboured, fingers clutching tightly onto Harry’s shoulders to stave off the burning stretch. He stops just when Harry is only half way in, and Harry bites back a whine, instead running his hands up and down Malfoy’s back in an attempt to soothe him. Malfoy sinks down another inch and Harry feels like he might explode.   
  
He wants nothing more than to thrust up all the way, to completely bury himself into the heat of Malfoy’s tight, little arse. But he focuses on any shred of self-control he has left and holds on tight. Slowly, agonisingly, Malfoy lowers himself all the way until Harry is fully in. Malfoy sits there for a moment before lifting his hips up by just an inch and slamming back down. Harry yells at the sensation, unable to hold back. His hands find their way to Malfoy’s hips once again and begins to guide him. Malfoy begins to ride Harry more earnestly now, hips canting up at a faster pace.   
  
“W-wait,” Malfoy mumbles. Harry takes his hands off of Malfoy’s hips, but Malfoy doesn’t stop moving, hips still pistoning over Harry’s cock. “What if someone walks in?”   
  
A groan rips from Harry’s throat. “Let them watch.”   
  
Malfoy moans at Harry’s words then impales himself on Harry’s cock again. He continues to move his hips, not even needing Harry’s hands to guide him at this point. Harry lowers his eyes and stares, mesmerized by the sight of Malfoy’s cock bobbing up and down from under his skirt, the material billowing out from under him as he continues to move.   
  
Vaguely, Harry wonders what it must look like, his own cock fucking in and out of Malfoy’s arse with the skirt on. He realizes he really doesn’t mind if anyone happened to walk in on them now and see Malfoy bouncing up and down on Harry’s cock, moaning and making filthy noises as Harry repeatedly hits his sweet spot.   
  
“Yes, fuck, Malfoy,” Harry groans. His head falls back onto the couch. “Just like that.”   
  
Malfoy grinds down on Harry’s cock in circular motions now, whimpering and whining at the sensation. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Malfoy breathes. His hips are moving faster now and Harry can feel his orgasm building up within him.   
  
“Merlin, so fucking good,” Malfoy rasps against Harry’s lips.   
  
Lewd noises fill the empty room, sounds of skin against skin and thready moans intermingling. Harry kisses Malfoy again, hard and rough as Malfoy continues to thrust down. His movements are erratic now, uncontrolled and full of want. Harry knows he’s not gonna last much longer. He reaches his hand in between and swipes his thumb over the head of Malfoy’s cock, squeezing lightly. Malfoy’s hips stutter and with a sharp cry, Malfoy comes, coating the both of them in sticky, warm fluid.   
  
Malfoy’s head is thrown back in ecstasy, back arched and hips still moving as he rides out the last spurts of his own orgasm. The sight alone is enough to push Harry over the edge, his own orgasm following after Malfoy’s. Harry thrusts his hips once, twice, until he completely empties himself out into Malfoy.   
  
For the next few moments, neither of them move in an attempt to catch their breaths. By the time Harry feels his cock softening from inside Malfoy, Malfoy moves. He rises to his feet shakily, pushing off of Harry’s shoulders. Harry’s cock slips out of Malfoy with a squelching noise that makes Harry flinch. Wordlessly, Harry casts a cleaning charm over the both of them and fixes himself.   
  
When the both of them are relatively clean and back to normal, Malfoy speaks.   
  
“I’d like my knickers now, Potter,” Malfoy mutters, voice edging into possible agitation. Harry’s eyes flick to Malfoy’s outstretched hand and then to the hem of his skirt. Poking out from under is the head of Malfoy’s pale, flaccid cock and it just does something to Harry. Malfoy notices where his attention is directed and scowls. “Honestly, Potter, can you not think with your prick for once—”   
  
Whatever insult Malfoy had prepared is cut off at the sound of the common room door opening. Harry whips his head around to see some of his classmates enter then, noisily discussing something before noticing Harry and Malfoy. Then Harry remembers Malfoy, who is still missing a pair of underpants, and his eyes travel back to his front only to see that the other man is sitting back in his initial chair, a blanket covering his lap. A shot of relief floods through Harry as he watches Malfoy dutifully pretend to be enraptured by the book in his hands.   
  
“Oh, Harry!” a voice calls out. Harry turns his head back around to see that Ron has entered as well. “You’ve got to come up and see what Seamus got from home.”   
  
And so Harry gets up, ignoring the dull ache in his bum from sitting so long, and starts after Ron who hasn’t even bothered to wait for him. Just before Harry heads up the stairs, he lets his gaze drift back over to Malfoy, who is staring back at him already. He looks thoroughly debauched, Harry thinks with slight glee. No one else who passes by notices or comments on it, thankfully, but Harry can see it plain as day. Malfoy’s hair is a mess, bangs strewn haphazardly across his sweaty forehead and his cheeks are still tinged a lovely rose color that matches well with the red swell of his lips.   
  
Harry can’t help the smirk that forms at his face at Malfoy’s helpless expression before he makes his way up the stairs and to his dorm.   
  
It turns out that the package Seamus had received is a box of assorted candies from Romania. His parents are currently vacationing there and had thought it nice to send him a box of voice changing chocolates and meat flavored lollies. Harry tries to feign interest, really, but all he can think about is Malfoy. Malfoy and his short skirt and his lacy knickers and his lovely arse. Harry hopes the blush on his face isn’t evident.   
  
Never in Harry’s wildest dreams had he ever thought he’d have the opportunity to shag Malfoy. And never had he thought he’d ever even consider it as an opportunity. But it was, wasn’t it?  _ Fuck _ , Harry thinks, running a hand through his hair. It had been every bit an opportunity and a stroke of luck and it hits him now that it had really happened. Just moments ago, Harry had been buried up Malfoy’s arse and Malfoy had  _ liked _ it.   
  
Thoughts of Malfoy, his head thrown back and baring the line of his pale throat, his arse squirming in Harry’s lap are enough for Harry’s prick to twitch slightly in interest. He decides he needs to leave the room and get ready for bed before things get out of hand. Quickly, Harry stands up from his bed and heads for his trunk. As he bends down, something falls out of his pocket and onto the carpeted floor.   
  
Before Harry even notices, Ron reaches for it. “Hey, you dropped this mate—woah!”   
  
Thankfully, the other guys are still too occupied with guessing lolly flavors to watch as Ron picks up Malfoy’s knickers and drop them back down. Harry’s cheeks warm as he reaches out to swipe the underwear and stuffs them into his pocket wordlessly. He gathers his sleeping things, unable to look up and meet Ron’s eyes. How on earth was he going to explain this? He doesn’t want to have this conversation now, or ever, really. He doesn’t know how Ron would react to Harry having an interest in men or men in skirts and knickers, or more specifically, Malfoy in a skirt and knickers.   
  
When he looks back up at Ron, the ginger’s face is decidedly green.   
  
“Uh,” Ron begins, clearly unsure of how to go forward with the situation. “Please tell me those aren’t my sister’s.”   
  
A nervous laugh rips from Harry’s throat. “Absolutely not,” Harry says in one breath. He stands up to Ron’s height.   
  
Ron eyes the pocket of Harry’s trousers in a way that makes Harry shift the weight on his feet. “Er, are they yours then?” Ron asks. His face promptly turns green a bit more, as if imagining Harry in them.   
  
“Blimey, of course not,” Harry asserts hotly. His entire body is warm with humiliation now but Ron doesn’t relent.   
  
“I just wanna know who’s knickers I just grabbed,” Ron hisses, face starting to shift from a shade of green to red.   
  
“It’s—it’s no ones,” Harry manages to choke out before pushing past Ron and heading for the bathroom. The back of Harry’s head burns from the heat of Ron’s curious gaze. He briskly walks out and slams the dormitory door shut with much more force than usual.


	2. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait! i honestly think i rewrote this chapter three times in frustration and the end result is a big ol mix of all three of my versions. thank you guys for your patience and the wonderful comments in the last chapter! i've never gotten this much love off the bat on a fic before and it's really appreciated!

The next day seems to be hotter than the last. By now, everyone is used to the quiet air that fills Hogwarts. Outside classes remain shorter than ever and quidditch continues to be cancelled. Most do not bother with their usual ties and properly done up uniforms, instead completely abandoning the usual school dress code for half-buttoned shirts and rolled-up sleeves.

Harry nearly skips out on breakfast, much too ashamed to face Ron. He had managed to avoid any further confrontation the other night and in the morning as well, waiting until everyone had left the dorm before getting up to get ready. The decision to eat in the Great Hall is largely influenced by the all-encompassing heat the kitchens seem to hold these days, and Harry decides that he’ll just have to suffer through whatever sort of interrogation Ron is to be subjecting him to.

It never comes, however. He takes his usual seat from across Ron and Hermione, silently awaiting the eventual barrage of questions, but nothing comes. In fact, Ron doesn’t mutter a single word through breakfast. Hermione leads the conversation instead, starting a one-sided talk speculating on how different their upcoming NEWTs will be to their previous OWLs. If it weren’t for the ruddiness of Ron’s cheeks, Harry would have thought that the heat had finally gotten to him. But Harry knows better and realizes that Ron is physically refraining himself from asking Harry any questions. That much is evident in the stiffness of his shoulders, the tight clench of his jaw.

The thought of Ron holding off his own burning desire to know for Harry’s sake is almost touching, if it weren’t for the evident curiosity in his eyes as he steals glances at Harry over his goblet. At least Ron recognizes that breakfast is not the time to be discussing Harry’s  _ proclivities _ . Although, Harry also knows from the stern set of Ron’s mouth that last night’s events are far from forgotten, and Harry expects the questions to come pouring out the minute they find themselves alone.   
  
The pointed tine of Harry’s fork pokes into one of his fried eggs in his distraction as he hunches in on himself. At the slightest pressure, the yolk of the egg bursts and the golden liquid spills out, dripping onto the white of the egg and Harry’s plate. Harry stares and finds himself vaguely reminded of the sight of Malfoy coming, white liquid spurting from the tip of his cock and dripping onto his pale thighs. Harry drops his fork in alarm, metal clattering loudly against the surface of the table, and feels his ears redden. Merlin, he’s getting aroused by  _ eggs _ now. What sort of sex fiend had Malfoy turned him into overnight?   
  
It’s not right to blame Malfoy, he knows that, but it’s near impossible to. Ever since their tryst in the common room, Harry hasn’t been able to get him out of his mind. There is no forgetting the noises Malfoy had made as Harry thrust up into his heat, obscene noises echoing in Harry’s mind as the image of Malfoy bouncing up and down his cock replays. It only worsens when Malfoy finally comes down to breakfast and Harry sees that he’s still wearing that bloody skirt and  _ fuck _ , Harry’s hard again. He can’t look at the skirt and not think of the filthy thoughts he had the day before, the filthy things he had done to Malfoy while he wore the damn thing. Is Harry’s attraction to the skirt exclusively? He doesn’t know at this point. All he knows is that Malfoy looks like a fucking meal like that and Harry is itching for another taste.   
  
The blonde git doesn’t look at Harry once during breakfast and it’s aggravating. Harry doesn’t know how Malfoy can just sit there and not acknowledge him after the things they had done. He knows Malfoy hasn’t forgotten though, if the slight blush that paints his cheeks is any indication. Self-satisfaction is imbued in Harry when he notices Malfoy shifting in his seat, clearly still feeling sore over their activities from the night before.

The sense of triumph that fills him over Malfoy’s apparent memory of Harry is slightly jarring and Harry questions himself over it. He supposes he’s always had a sense of wanting Malfoy’s attention in some sort of capacity, Hermione had said just as much when criticizing him in sixth year for his stalking. He denied it vehemently, of course, but Hermione’s words sit at the forefront of his mind. He certainly wants Malfoy’s attention now, he concludes, but for an entirely different reason.   
  
Classes continue on as usual; a slow torture designed to murder Harry by the end of the day with the imagery of Malfoy. The other man sits in class, skirt still teasingly short, and Harry can’t look away. It feels a lot like being given the last slice of treacle tart, only to have it taken away after one bite.   
  
In all his staring, he’s caught Malfoy staring back a couple of times as well. The blonde always looks away too quickly, much to Harry’s dislike, but it’s clear that he knows he’s being watched. A small part of Harry even enjoys the way Malfoy always seems to avoid his gaze, attention snapping back to the front of the classroom, the skin of his neck blushing red.   
  
“Oi, is that—is that what I think it is?” Ron whispers during a particularly boring Charms class. Harry half pays attention, figuring that Ron is addressing Hermione more than him, and keeps his eyes firmly trained on Malfoy’s smooth legs, crossed tightly at the ankle.   
  
“My goodness,” Hermione gasps. “Ron, don’t point it’s rude.”   
  
Harry looks up to see Ron lowering his finger, but the couple is still staring. After a beat, Harry realizes that they are staring in Malfoy’s direction and hot shame spreads through his chest. They probably have it figured out now, Harry panics. It isn’t as if Harry has been terribly subtle in his staring. Maybe someone had heard the night before, or they really had been walked in on. Or maybe Ron or Hermione had just brilliantly deduced what was going on.   
  
However, neither Ron or Hermione say anything to Harry, instead continuing to stare at Malfoy in wonder. Which, really should be Harry’s job at this point. With some mild annoyance at the new attention his friends are giving the blonde, Harry looks back over at Malfoy and tries to understand what has his friends so interested. It’s definitely not the skirt, Harry decides. By now he’s come to recognize that he’s the only one  _ affected _ by the skirt. His eyes travel further up, past the skirt and all the way to Malfoy’s throat. His eyes stop there and widen as he finally sees it, and it is really ridiculous how he hadn’t noticed it before in all his staring.   
  
On Malfoy’s throat, just by his adam’s apple, is a rather large hickey that looks unnatural on his usually pale, unmarked skin. It boasts an angry, purplish-red color that can be seen from even Harry’s seat. The room feels even warmer than before. It appears that after last night, Malfoy hadn’t bothered to conceal or heal the love bite at all. Harry feels mortification roil through him at the thought of Malfoy’s friends seeing it, asking how he had gotten it. But Malfoy wouldn’t tell... At least, Harry doesn’t think he would. But it is still very obvious and barely hidden by Malfoy’s collar. And now Harry’s own friends have noticed.   
  
“Shit,” Harry mutters under his breath.   
  
Ron lets out a low whistle. “Shit indeed. Honestly, who’d even want to snog that git?”   
  
“Quiet down, Ron,” Hermione admonishes, shooting a worried glance over at Malfoy. Malfoy appears to have not heard anything, head still facing forward and seemingly paying attention to Flitwick’s lecture.   
  
“I bet it was Parkinson,” Ron continues, much quieter this time. Harry feels a prickle of jealousy at the insinuation. Parkinson? Why would Parkinson ever go near Malfoy in that way?   
  
He voices just as much to Ron, who stares at him, nonplussed. “I thought you’d know with all your stalking in sixth year that they dated.”   
  
Harry feels himself redden at Ron’s words. “I-I knew that,” Harry says quickly. “I just didn’t think they were still dating.”   
  
Ron gives him a puzzled look before tuning back into the lecture, likely wanting to avoid Hermione’s nagging. Harry does his best to do the same, but Ron’s words have struck a chord with him. Could Parkinson still be dating Malfoy? It’s impossible, and an absurd notion. Malfoy would have never allowed Harry to touch him like that if he were with Parkinson. Harry knows that. And yet the thought keeps niggling at the back of his mind like an unwelcome visitor.   
  
Harry figures he’ll have time to talk to Malfoy after lunch. It’s free period, after all, and Harry will have plenty of time. But the thought persists and his gut is telling him to do it as soon as possible. He keeps watch on Malfoy from the corner of his eye, unable to help it. Just then, Parkinson reaches over and slides a well-manicured hand through Malfoy’s platinum blonde hair, to which Malfoy actually leans into the touch. Hot fury blares through Harry’s chest and he very nearly gets up and grabs Malfoy right there.   
  
Class is just barely dismissed before Harry packs his things quickly and tells Ron and Hermione to go to lunch ahead of him. Ron seems hesitant, but when Hermione offers to take Harry’s bag and heads off, Ron follows easily. Once the pair has left the room, Harry makes his move.   


Malfoy is still talking with Parkinson and putting his inkwell away when Harry approaches. Their conversation comes to an abrupt stop as both former Slytherins turn their heads to look at Harry. Parkinson has an imperceptible look on her face, eyes flitting between both Malfoy and Harry in rapid fashion. She looks stupid, Harry finds himself thinking, but quickly dismisses it.   
  
Harry gives Malfoy a pointed look. “Can we talk?”   
  
Malfoy and Parkinson exchange a look. “Of course, Potter,” Malfoy replies smoothly, hefting his satchel onto his shoulder. “Lead the way.”   
  
Parkinson stays behind, hand on her hip and beady eyes suspicious as Harry and Malfoy leave the classroom.   
  
Harry, admittedly, has no idea what he’s doing. He leads Malfoy down the stairs to the second floor girl’s lavatory, the one out of order and usually deserted. It’s only known occupant, Moaning Myrtle, appears to not be in at the moment, much to Harry’s relief. Once inside, Harry rounds on Malfoy by the sinks and just stands.   
  
Because he really, really doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.   
  
He had wanted to talk to Malfoy, sure, but what of it? He had convinced himself initially that it was to ask about Malfoy and Parkinson, but the more he contemplates over it, the more ridiculous his theory sounds. Of course Malfoy and Parkinson aren’t together anymore. Harry thinks he would have noticed some time this year if they were. After all, Harry swears he’s seen Parkinson making eyes at Luna of all people.   
  
And so Harry just stares, like he always seems to be doing now with Malfoy. Malfoy looks...  _ Good _ . Which is another new constant for Harry. His hair is coiffed nicely, platinum locks just barely brushing his smooth, pale forehead. His lips are shiny, whether from gloss or spit, Harry doesn’t know. But it’s a captivating sight and Harry wonders just how much kissing Malfoy would need before his lips turn plump and red as Harry has come to know them as.   
  
Malfoy clears his throat and Harry snaps out of his daze. “Well,” Malfoy spits. “What have you got to say, Potter?”   
  
“How long are you wearing that skirt for?” is the first thing that comes to Harry’s mind, and is the first thing to come out of Harry’s mouth.   
  
Malfoy turns a spectacular shade of pink. “Why? Want to know how much longer you’ll be able to see this?” he questions, gesturing to his lower half.   
  
This time, it’s Harry’s turn to blush. “I’m just surprised that you’re still wearing it.”   
  
“If you must know, the consequence of the bet states that I am to be wearing this for a week,” Malfoy huffs testily. He crosses his arms and glares at Harry, as if urging him to question further.   
  
Instead, Harry lets out a deep breath.  _ A whole week _ , Harry’s mind repeats. Harry has a whole week left of seeing Malfoy like this, prancing around in a skirt and showing off his lovely arse and lovely legs. Harry doesn’t think he can survive.   
  
Suddenly, Harry remembers the material he had hastily stuffed in his pocket before leaving for breakfast. “Oh, uhm, these are yours.”   
  
Without any sense of grace or decorum, Harry quickly pulls Malfoy’s black knickers out from his pocket and holds it out. Malfoy turns positively red as a tomato at the sight of his undergarment, which he snatches up as quickly as one does with a snitch. The black fabric is clutched tightly in his pale hand before being ungracefully stuffed into his book bag, which he sets down after a moment.

“Yes, I should thank you for leaving me helpless in the common room without so much as a stitch of clothing on my bare arse,” Malfoy drawls, venom dripping from his voice. Harry tries to rein in his thoughts as he pictures Malfoy’s bare arse.

“Well, you made it up just fine to your dorm didn’t you?” Harry points out. Malfoy ignores the question and his eyes drop back to the bag on his ground, now containing his soiled panties from the other day.

“You’ve just been carrying those around?” Malfoy hisses, sounding appalled by the very notion.   
  
“Er, yes?” Harry offers, unsure of how to respond.   
  
“What if they had fallen out?”   
  
“Um. Right. They sort of already did.”   
  
“Oh, Merlin,” Malfoy breathes and just the way he says that, eyes fluttering shut, reminds Harry of how Malfoy had said the same words last night, sitting in Harry’s lap, barely clothed groin grinding against Harry’s own.

Harry bites his lip before asking, “Can I touch you again?”   
  
Malfoy eyes snap open and he stares, mouth slightly agape. “What are you playing at, Potter? Are you even gay?” he grinds out.   
  
“Bisexual, actually,” Harry mumbles. That wipes the sneer off of Malfoy’s face.   
  
“Oh.” Malfoy pauses. For a moment, his eyes seem fixed on a particularly nasty crack in the tile floor, processing the information before raising his head and giving Harry a level look. “But... Why me?”   
  
Harry stares back in surprise. “Have you seen yourself?” he asks with a snort. “Do you really have no idea how you look, Malfoy?”   
  
Malfoy remains silent, steely eyes boring holes into Harry, but his expression betrays a certain curiosity. Harry then realizes that Malfoy really doesn’t know, has no fucking clue what he does to Harry. It’s ridiculous—for all the pomp and confidence Malfoy has always seemed to ooze, he doesn’t seem to regard himself very highly in terms of looks and that just bothers Harry. How could someone so bloody gorgeous walk around and not know it?   
  
“You look so stunning like this,” Harry continues. “So stunning in that pretty little skirt of yours, so teasing and frustratingly short.”   
  
Before he even realizes it, he’s got Malfoy crowded back against one of the sinks, the porcelain digging into the small of his back. Harry doesn’t miss the way Malfoy’s lips part at Harry’s words, eyes wide and pupils blown with what Harry can only name as desire. He doesn’t look away from Harry, gaze almost defiant as Harry steps even closer, all the way until their bodies are flush against each other. And then Malfoy kisses him.   
  
It’s messy and forceful at first, Malfoy’s teeth clacking painfully against Harry’s own once they collide. But then Harry is kissing back and Malfoy opens his mouth easily, body pliant and soft under Harry’s touch. The taste of cinnamon floods Harry’s senses again and it tastes incredible, better than anything else he could have eaten today. He briefly wonders what Malfoy tastes on him, if he himself tastes any good like Malfoy does.   
  
Malfoy rocks his hips up against Harry’s own, his mouth whining and releasing soft noises that go straight to Harry’s groin. His movements are shaky and desperate in a way that screams  _ I want you _ and it’s all so overwhelming for Harry. He snakes a hand up Malfoy’s skirt, fingers tracing smooth skin until they stop against thin fabric and Harry realizes  _ holy shit, Malfoy’s wearing knickers again. _ _  
_   
Harry pulls away from Malfoy’s mouth to flip his skirt up. He sucks in a breath as he takes in the sight. Malfoy’s new knickers are near identical to the ones from the day before, only in a deep red color instead that Harry feels himself going mental over. The thickness of his cock strains against the lace confines, it’s bright red flush complimenting the burgundy of the fabric.   
  
“Where do you fucking get these?” Harry growls. He slips a finger into the waistband, stretching it slightly before releasing, letting the elastic snap at Malfoy’s skin.   
  
Malfoy shivers as the ivory skin there begins to blossom into pink and admits, “I’ve always owned them.”   
  
Harry groans and lowers his head to nip at Malfoy’s jaw, kissing lightly to avoid any further marks. The thought of Malfoy owning these, wearing them throughout the school year, lacy material rubbing against his cock from under his trousers, is intoxicating. Harry finds himself wishing he hadn’t waited so long to do this. He finds that he loves the idea of Malfoy wearing knickers even more than he loves the idea of Malfoy in skirts.   
  
Harry bites lightly at Malfoy’s earlobe and hums, “Wanna taste you.”   
  
Malfoy shudders against him and Harry thinks he feels the other man get harder.   
  
“Turn around for me, darling,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t know where the nickname came from, but Malfoy appears to like it, pupils dilating a fraction or so before he moves to follow Harry’s request.   
  
In a second, he’s pressed against the sink, arse pushed out against Harry’s crotch. The mirror is disgustingly dirty, but even then, Harry can still see Malfoy’s lustful expression through it, eyes half-lidded and mouth partially open in pure want. Long, pale fingers grip the sink in anticipation and Harry figures he can’t wait any longer.   
  
Harry takes a step back to admire the view. Malfoy’s skirt rests prettily against his arse, raised high enough so that Harry can see the crease of his arse, just as he had been able to see in potions class the day before. Only Harry can also see the edge of a red, lacy fabric that has Harry’s blood hot and pumping. He’s fully hard now, the length of his cock straining uncomfortably against his trousers. He wants nothing more than to take Malfoy now, fuck into him as he’s bent over the sink. But Harry wants to do something first.   
  
In a swift motion, Harry sinks to his knees and allows himself the view up Malfoy’s skirt. Self consciously, Malfoy tightens his legs together before Harry brings a hand up to rub at his thighs, nudging them apart for Harry to see better. Malfoy looks incredible like this, legs spread apart just for Harry. Through the near sheerness of the fabric, Harry can see the shadow of Malfoy’s hole, the lace pattern obstructing the complete view. Harry then reaches forward to grab hold of the knickers before pulling them down to reveal Malfoy’s arse, pale and full. He leaves the knickers bunched at the middle of Malfoy’s thighs, the red material standing out against the white of his skin.   
  
Harry moves his hands from the fabric to Malfoy’s arse, parting his cheeks to reveal Malfoy’s hole, wrinkled pink and winking and begging to be fucked. Suddenly, Harry is thankful that he’s on his knees, unsure of how he’d be able to keep standing at the sight of this. Above, Malfoy shifts his hips restlessly, antsy for Harry to do something, anything.   
  
“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy says, voice low and wanting. “We haven’t got all day.”   
  
Not wanting to waste any more time, Harry leans in and licks a single stripe up Malfoy’s crack. A soft cry flows out of Malfoy’s mouth before he can stop it, and he shoves his arse back into Harry’s face in a silent plea. Harry obliges and presses the flat of his tongue against Malfoy’s rim, tonguing at the furled hole and slathering the skin with wet. Malfoy is panting already, hands still gripping onto the sink as a means of steadying himself.   
  
Malfoy tastes exactly as Harry had expected. The same cinnamon and vanilla mix that Harry has now found himself so dearly acquainted with reaches his tongue as he continues to lap at the sensitive skin. Malfoy is a trembling mess now, legs quivering as Harry continues to taste and lick and suck. Malfoy lets out a scream that’s sure to rival any of Myrtle’s own when Harry wriggles his tongue in, pushing past the tight ring of Malfoy’s entrance and into his heat. Malfoy’s hips buck wildly forcing Harry to move his hands to Malfoy’s hips, gripping tightly to keep him in place. One of Malfoy’s own hands has reached around back to grip Harry’s hair, pushing his head even further in. Harry does his best to press his tongue as far as possible, uncaring of the drool that’s started to trail his chin as he continues to slick up Malfoy’s inner walls.   
  
When Harry can feel how close Malfoy is, he leans back. The loss of sensation is jarring and Malfoy’s knees nearly buckle under him if it weren’t for Harry’s steady hands. Harry absentmindedly runs his hands over the supple flesh of Malfoy’s arse, squeezing and kneading lightly.   
  
“You good, darling?” Harry asks, wiping the spit off his chin.   
  
Malfoy nods quickly and turns his head back as far as he can. “Please... Please fuck me.”   
  
Harry loves that, is fucking addicted to how desperate he is. Malfoy looks a right mess like this, skin tinted pink all over and hair slick with sweat. His balls are drawn up tight against him and his cock is hard and leaking, hanging heavily between his legs and under his skirt. And his lovely arse, pink now from Harry’s constant touches, reveals his stretched hole, already open and pliant and ready for Harry. It’s such a contrast from the Malfoy that Harry has known for so long. And yet... not at all. Harry has always known Malfoy to be whiny and needy, just not in this manner. But he could never have anticipated how willing Malfoy could be, how open he is to Harry and how easily he spreads his legs for the other man.   
  
Harry uses a lubrication charm that coats his fingers easily before pushing two fingers in. Malfoy lets out a wail, hands scrabbling at the sink and head bowing. Harry’s fingers begin to pump into Malfoy’s hole in earnest, scissoring as he pushes in and out. Malfoy takes him well, rocking back onto the steady rhythm of Harry’s fingers with zeal. Harry pushes a third finger in, curling them as he pulls out and finds the tight bundle of nerves that sends Malfoy into an incoherent mess.   
  
“F-fuck, Potter,” Malfoy stutters, pushing against the sink and onto Harry’s fingers. “Your cock—Merlin, please—“   
  
Without further ado, Harry slicks himself and pushes into Malfoy, not allowing him the privilege of adjusting. Malfoy’s body is wracked with spasms as he desperately tries to adjust to the thickness of Harry’s cock, hole clenching agonizingly around him. Harry groans against the heat of Malfoy’s back before dragging his hips back and slamming back in. Malfoy arches his back with a cry.   
  
“Oh, fuck! That—Oh, yes!” Malfoy cries out.

The head of Harry’s cock rubs over Malfoy’s prostate, drawing forth a litany of curses from the blonde’s pink lips. Malfoy urges Harry to fuck into him as hard as he can and Harry obliges as much as he can, lips mouthing at the sweat-slicked skin of Malfoy’s back. Malfoy’s hole is slick and addicting, clenching around Harry with each thrust as if trying to keep him there. The drive of Harry’s hips only speeds up, slamming into Malfoy and leaving the blonde crying out from the force.

“Yes,” Harry hisses, snapping his hips faster. “You take me so well, darling— _ Shit! _ ”

Malfoy continues to move in time with Harry, lifting his arse to meet with Harry’s thrusts. Harry doesn’t hold back, simply pounds away into the addictive heat of Malfoy, trying to go deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips. Malfoy is close now, Harry’s sure of it, he can tell from the knuckle-white grip of his hands and the way his legs tremble with an effort to keep up. And the sounds he’s making, delicious moans that fill and echo throughout the lavatory, only encourage Harry to go faster, harder.

“Potter, I’m going to—I’m—ah!” Malfoy comes sharply, hips stuttering in their previous movements. He clenches around Harry almost frantically and Harry finds himself coming right after, holding Malfoy’s hips in a bruising grip as he fucks his spurts of come into him.   
  
When Harry pulls out, he doesn’t cast cleaning charms right away. Instead, he watches with mild fascination as a mix of lube and come trail out of Malfoy’s arse, dripping down his smooth thighs and onto the floor and his red knickers. Engrossed by the sight, Harry reaches a hand out to rub at the puffed hole, causing Malfoy to hiss lightly at the feeling and Harry suddenly remembers himself.   
  
“Sorry, uh,” Harry stumbles over his words. “You okay?” He tries to ignore the unspoken darling that hangs in the air.   
  
Malfoy’s shoulders are tense as he straightens. “Yeah, yeah.”   
  
For a moment, Harry thinks he’s properly fucked up now. The sex with Malfoy in the common room could have been a one-time thing, and yet he had to be an insatiable sex deviant and follow up with this. And now, after a good year of tentative civility, they are going to go back to hating each other. It‘s understandable, Harry thinks. For all of Malfoy’s enthusiasm, maybe he had just been going along with it to appease Harry. The thought sickens him, his gut feeling as though it has fallen out and onto the floor.   
  
“Hey.” Malfoy’s voice is soft as silk when he turns around to face Harry. His face is unreadable, eyebrows and lips perfectly neutral in shape. But his eyes are soft, softer than Harry has ever known them to be. “That was... Really good.”   
  
“Oh?” Harry says intelligently.   
  
The corner of Malfoy’s mouth lifts up in a sort of smirk before he leans in and presses his lips onto Harry’s. The kiss is a complete opposite to the one they had shared earlier. Malfoy’s lips are tender, moving against Harry’s in a way that could almost be described as... Affectionate. Surprisingly, Harry finds himself liking the change of pace, humming in content as he deepens the kiss. His hand moves of its own accord, reaching up to gently tangle his fingers into Malfoy’s silky, fair hair.   
  
Malfoy pulls away slowly and blinks and for a second, Harry thinks he might have imagined the whole thing. But then a slow, small smile begins to form on Malfoy’s face and  _ oh _ —that’s new. The sight makes Harry’s chest clench tightly, an odd sort of sensation that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. And then Malfoy steps back, as much as he’s allowed with the sink behind him, but the smile is still on his face.   
  
“I’d really like a cleaning charm now,” Malfoy teases, tone light and airy and sounding a bit like how Harry currently feels.   
  
“Right,” Harry mumbles. He fumbles for his wand for a moment before casting the charms, reveling in the sensation of magic washing over them. It isn’t as thorough as he’d like, but it would do for now.   
  
He turns to give Malfoy some space and also to fix himself up. Discreetly, he casts a tempus charm and realizes that they’ve both missed the better part of lunch. Harry figures they still have time to eat, but walking in late with each other doesn’t exactly seem appealing. It isn’t as though he is ashamed to walk in with Malfoy, at least, not for the obvious reasons one might think of. Instead, his worries lie in what people might speculate. Or rather, how close some people’s speculations may be to the matter at hand.   
  
When Harry turns around, Malfoy has properly dressed again and doing his best to inspect his reflection in the grimy mirror. Once again, Harry is left wondering how he’d never noticed how attractive Malfoy could be. There is a delicate beauty found in the sharp angles of his face and the pale coloring of his person. Of course, Harry supposes he can chalk it up to how much of a git Malfoy had been in the last seven years. That had certainly taken away any of his more redeeming qualities.   
  
Harry clears his throat. “Lunch is going to end soon so I thought...” He begins to shuffle his feet before stopping abruptly, remembering how Mrs. Weasley had chastised him on the behavior. “I thought maybe we could have lunch in the kitchens during free period?”   
  
Once again, Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing. Malfoy looks at him strangely, head in a curious tilt but expression betraying nothing but strong bemusement. He knows what Malfoy is thinking. They’re neither friends nor enemies at this point. Harry doesn’t know what this even is. All he knows is that he’s wildly attracted to Malfoy and had just eaten his arse out for Merlin’s sake so the least he could do is grab lunch with the man.   
  
It seems that Malfoy has the same thoughts and he simply utters the words, “Lead the way.”   
  
The walk down to the kitchens is unnervingly quiet. They don’t encounter anyone out in the halls, thankfully, as everyone is still in the Great Hall for lunch. When they finally reach the secret passage into the kitchens, Harry lets out a breath of relief. He wouldn’t know what to do if his friends ever caught sight of him. Explaining just why he is sneaking around with a slightly disheveled Malfoy to Ron or Hermione is not something he needs at the moment, especially with Malfoy still being a not-friend.

Harry tries to keep that in mind as they take a seat at one of the wooden tables, the elves immediately tending to them. In seconds, Harry has a plate of bacon sandwiches before him and Malfoy has a fruit salad. This part is easy for Harry and he quickly tucks into his sandwiches, letting the silence continue over them as they begin to eat. It’s not entirely awkward, Harry refuses to feel that way, but it feels inadequate nonetheless. Harry just isn’t sure of the protocol for shagging your ex rival silly after seeing him in a skirt.   
  
Halfway through Harry’s second sandwich, Malfoy speaks.   
  
“So.”   
  
Harry grunts.   
  
“Am I allowed to ask about it?” Malfoy arches a brow at him, the beginnings of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.   
  
Harry, however, is lost. “Um, about my sandwich?”   
  
When Malfoy rolls his eyes in a way that is all too dramatic, Harry feels his stomach flutter. It’s nice seeing Malfoy like that again, sarcastic and biting and a bit more him. It’s the old Malfoy that Harry is used to, albeit without the usual sharpness. Harry thinks he very much prefers this Malfoy to the quiet one he’s known all year.   
  
“No,” Malfoy replies, casually spearing his fork through a slice of strawberry. “About why you get off on guys in skirts.”   
  
Harry chokes on his next bite. “Blimey, Malfoy,” Harry coughs out. In seconds, a house elf is by his side offering a glass of water which he takes gratefully.   
  
Malfoy laughs lightly, a pretty little sound that laps at Harry’s ears in the same way the waves would at the shore. Harry’s stomach flutters again in a way he doesn’t understand.   
  
“Well, I’m just curious,” Malfoy admits with a shrug.   
  
“Er, I think it’s only you.” Harry pauses. “Uh, the interest, I mean.”   
  
Malfoy’s grey eyes look awfully bright, almost twinkling in the lighting of the kitchens. “Oh really?”   
  
Harry falters in his reply, stopping to reflect on it. Is it just Malfoy? Or does he really have a thing for any guy in a skirt? He tries to imagine himself wearing a skirt, which he quickly dismisses with faint amusement. He certainly doesn’t have the legs for it. But then his mind drifts off to others, trying to picture any other bloke in a skirt. The images that accompany those thoughts are much more unpleasant than arousing and by the time Harry comes to picture Ron’s freckled arse in a skirt, he decides that  _ yes, Malfoy really is the only one. _   
  
Harry scrunches his face. “Oh that’s—no, yeah. Definitely just you.”   
  
He looks up to see Malfoy smile a slow, wide smile that reminds Harry of the cat from that one children’s book Dudley had never allowed him to read. It didn’t matter that Dudley only ever looked at the books for the pretty pictures, Harry just simply wasn’t allowed it. Harry realizes that he doesn’t see Malfoy smile often, and he finds that he wants to see it more and more.   
  
“But you like blokes,” Malfoy states.    
  
Harry nods. “Yeah, witch or wizard, doesn’t really matter to me.” Malfoy nods at this and Harry angles a questioning look at him. “Um... And you?”   
  
“Exclusively blokes,” Malfoy answers. Harry’s eyes catch on Malfoy’s fingers, which reach up to rub at the love bite at his neck. “I’m gay, Potter.”   
  
“Oh.” Harry pauses for a moment, considering. “Uh, and Pansy?”   
  
Malfoy laughs again and something in Harry’s stomach flutters in tune. “Nothing but a bout of confusion for the both of us.”   
  
When Harry doesn’t answer, Malfoy calls over one of the house elves and hands a black ball of fabric to the house elf—Malfoy’s black knickers from the other day. Harry had completely forgotten about it, the lacy knickers slipping from his mind completely after everything. Before the house elf moves away to wash the undergarment, Malfoy rises to his feet and slides the underwear from today—those sinfully red panties—down his long, pale legs and handing that pair to the house elf as well.   
  
Harry doesn’t pay attention to the house elf as it walks away, his eyes catching instead on the peek of Malfoy’s cock just under the hem of his skirt. The sight is gone all too quickly as Malfoy sits back down, grimacing slightly at the pressure before resuming his meal. Harry makes a valiant effort to do the same but cannot take his mind off of what’s sitting before him. Malfoy, dressed in a skirt with nothing under, nothing holding back that elegant cock of his or restricting Harry from reaching up his skirt and coming into contact with his skin. He could take Malfoy here and now, Harry thinks, bend him over one of these tables and fuck him hard again. Blood fills his cock at the thought, and he finds himself horrendously aroused again.   
  
Malfoy seems to notice and he flicks a gaze across the table. “My, my, Potter,” he clucks, “does everything get you randy?”   
  
_ Only when it’s you _ , Harry’s traitorous mind supplies.   
  
Instead, Harry asks, “Aren’t you bothered about being indecent in front of the house elves?”   
  
“Why should I be?” Malfoy questions. He looks genuinely confused as he takes a sip from his goblet. “It’s not like they have the same concept of nudity as we do. Must be nice to be rid of all the human hang up.”   
  
Harry rolls his eyes at Malfoy’s words but casts a cursory glance around the room. The house elves of the kitchen do not spare either of them a glance, almost pointedly ignoring the pair to give some semblance of privacy. The majority of them are working on washing dishes and goblets—it appears that lunch has come to an end. True to his words, none of the elves even bat an eyelash at Malfoy’s semi-nudity while Harry sits in an uncomfortable state of arousal at the thought.   
  
Draco sniffs. “Honestly, you’d think after so many years as a wizard, you’d actually learn something.”   
  
“Well, I haven’t always grown up around magic,” Harry argues, but he knows it’s pointless from the look Malfoy gets in his eyes.   
  
“Neither did Granger, and she’s brilliant,” he points out. Malfoy then pauses, as if realizing the words he’s just uttered. “Don’t tell her I said that.”   
  
Harry’s heart does a funny little thing at the way Malfoy flushes. The other man busies himself with his salad, dutifully avoiding Harry’s gaze. Harry watches in fascination as Malfoy raises the fork to his mouth, red lips wrapping around the utensil to consume the bit of tangerine impaled onto the end. The salad is finished after a few more bites.

“What about that house elf from before?” Malfoy asks then, placing his fork to the side. “He adored you, if I remember correctly. Dobby.”   
  
Harry can’t help the way his face shutters at the mention of the house elf. “Oh he... he died in the war.”   
  
Malfoy blanches. “I’m sorry, I—“   
  
“No,” Harry says quickly. “It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize.”   
  
“No, I do,” Malfoy insists. “Dobby was a good house elf, I hope he served you well. As a friend,” he adds.    
  
Harry nods, unsure of how else to respond. Dobby had been exactly that—a friend. Of course, his initial introduction to Harry’s life had been nothing but a vexation. His attempts at saving Harry had been severely misguided, but Harry knows he has Dobby to partially thank for his survival of second year. And the night at the manor, when Dobby had bravely risked his life for Harry and his friends, can never be forgotten.

The look of regret on Malfoy’s face is unexpected. He looks genuinely remorseful, eyes downcast and pale brows furrowed slightly. It leaves Harry awed, and a little dumbstruck as he realizes that Malfoy really has changed. This is the same person who spoke disdainfully of the dinner held in memory of Cedric Diggory, and now here he is, looking somber over a house elf. 

“I used to talk to him a lot, you know,” Malfoy says eventually. His voice is much more quiet now, practically a whisper, as if he’s telling something to Harry in confidence. “When I was alone in the manor and father was at the ministry and mother off being a pureblood socialite—I spoke with him.”

Intrigued, Harry presses, “You and Dobby?”

A small smile graces Malfoy’s features as he gives a nod. “A bit ridiculous, I know, but I was a lonely child in that manor.” The smile on his face quirks up into a smirk. “I complained about you a lot to him too, you know.”

Surprisingly, Harry laughs, amused at the imagery of tiny Draco Malfoy blathering about Harry Potter. Vaguely, Harry is reminded of what Dobby had told him upon their meeting.  _ Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir. _ Even now, Harry cannot forget the squeaky voice of the house elf. He ponders over the statement, turning it over in his head as he begins to speculate that perhaps it had been Draco who had waxed praises of the Boy Who Lived to the fanciful house elf. Harry shakes the thought from his mind; it couldn’t have been Malfoy. They hated each other as kids, and it wouldn’t be too hard to imagine Dobby hearing of Harry through other means.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Malfoy clears his throat, “how did he die?”   
  
Harry swallows around the closing feeling in his throat at the memory of Dobby’s frail body, dying in his arms on that terribly cold beach. He didn’t know how elves preferred to be buried, but Dobby was never anything like the other house elves. The little makeshift grave off to the side of Shell Cottage was all Harry could do at the moment, and he knows Dobby would find even that to be too great of a resting place for him.   
  
“He was killed by Bellatrix, that night at the manor,” Harry finally answers.   
  
The look in Malfoy’s eyes is haunted, the events of that day replaying in his head like a broken record. Harry knows Malfoy hasn’t forgotten, because neither has he. He still remembers Malfoy’s face, pale and full of trepidation as he gazed into Harry’s green eyes, his own grey ones full of recognition before uttering  _ I can’t be sure. _ It was then that Harry knew Malfoy had hope—that he still has hope.   
  
“I never got to say thank you, you know,” Harry comments.   
  
The incredulous look that passes Malfoy’s face is almost comical. “Whatever for?”   
  
“For not naming me that day.”   
  
Malfoy fails to meet his gaze, pale eyes falling to the wood of the table. Harry watches an absent finger follow a deep groove in the surface, a well manicured nail scratching along the ridge of it.   
  
Malfoy’s voice sounds so small when he replies, “Some would call that too little too late, I believe.”   
  
Harry shrugs. “Some would, yeah, but I call it enough.”   
  
Malfoy looks up at Harry then, clearly astonished and thrown off by Harry’s words. After a moment, his expression settles into one of contentment, a shy smile forming on his face. Tentatively, Harry returns it, reveling in the warmth of Malfoy’s gaze. It isn’t a friendship, no, not yet it is.   
  
Malfoy’s smile hasn’t faded yet when he says, “We should get to class.”   


  
___   


By the end of the day, Harry still hasn’t gotten his conversation with Malfoy out of his head.

He shouldn’t be surprised—Harry knows fully well how much war can change a person. Except he still finds himself astounded by Malfoy’s change. It was already apparent early in the year how different Malfoy had become over the course of the war, the young man saving Harry’s life and returning to Hogwarts willingly. This new Malfoy, the reformed one, is nothing that Harry could have ever expected from his early years. The Malfoy he knew was scathing and vitriolic, always full of derisive words and cruel humor. There is still that spark within him now, one full of snark and wit, but without the cutting edge of a venom tipped blade. That Malfoy is one Harry wants to be friends with. Flashes of a rejected handshake ring through his mind and he decides that he wants to do Malfoy right this time, and he hopes Malfoy will do him right as well. Considering how well they’ve gotten on with each other in the past two days, Harry wonders if they could have always been friends.

There was also the matter of Malfoy’s red knickers being returned to him after their lunch, the black ones having been sent up to his dorm room already. Malfoy had given him a wicked look before rising from his seat, allowing Harry a lovely view of his cock under the grey fabric of the skirt before the blonde bent over to slip on the panties. The wonderful sight of Malfoy bending down in a skirt, bare bum and freshly fucked hole on display for Harry had been more arousing than he had needed in the moment. The resulting erection had left Harry hot and embarrassed, to which Malfoy had laughed and laughed at until Harry smacked him on the arse for it. That had gotten a very interesting reaction from Malfoy that Harry had filed away for future reference.   
  
The all too familiar flush of lust shoots through him once again, leaving him all too warm in his spot on the couch by the disused fireplace of the common room. He’s shed his tie once again after attempting to wear it during a brief cool period in the day, and his white shirt is almost halfway unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up. An effort to shift the book in his lap properly over his completely inappropriate hard on is made, and Harry hopes no one else nearby has noticed his current state of arousal.   
  
His hopes are dashed the moment Ron plops down into the seat beside him, the couch shaking slightly from the force. Harry scrambles to accommodate for him, scooting over several inches for space.   
  
Ron fixes Harry with a seeking stare. “We’re best friends, right?”   
  
“Er.” Harry presses the spine of his Herbology book into the seam of his trousers, willing his erection down. “Yeah, why?”   
  
“See, I get why you wouldn’t tell the others,” Ron begins and Harry groans internally at the turn of the conversation. “But it’s me. So who did those knickers from the other day belong to?”   
  
It’s extremely infuriating how earnestly Ron asks, eyes wide and curious, almost innocent despite the entire lack of innocence in the question. Irritation digs at Harry’s chest at Ron’s inability to let go of the incident. He knows he’s probably being a bit unfair. After all, Ron had practically been through hell and back with Harry on multiple occasions. But this isn’t hunting for horcruxes or slaying basilisks; it’s finding Draco Malfoy in a skirt so bloody hot that you want to fuck him up the arse for it. Twice.   
  
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Harry grumbles. He sets his eyes on the text of his Herbology book, clearly signaling the end of the conversation, but Ron is persistent.   
  
“Come on now, mate, you know you can tell me anything,” Ron insists.   
  
For a moment, Harry really flounders on the idea of unburdening his very confusing feelings for Malfoy to Ron. The entirety of it is a whole box full of loaded springs, ready to explode at the mere mention of Malfoy’s name. It would be too much all at once, Harry thinks. Disclosing his preferences, his kinks, and his apparent attraction to Malfoy. Harry trusts Ron with his life, and he knows that if this  _ thing _ with Malfoy is going to continue, Ron ought to be told in some way somehow. Except Harry isn’t ready.   
  
“I know,” Harry admits, “but I’d really rather not talk about it.”   
  
“Talk about what?” The sound of Hermione’s voice flutters in as she takes the empty spot beside Ron.   
  
Harry doesn’t plan on entertaining her question while Ron simply blurts out, “Harry’s pair of knickers.”   
  
Hermione’s eyes widen dramatically, practically bulging out of her head as she fixes a mildly horrified look in Harry’s direction. “Excuse me?”   
  
The flush that appears on his cheeks can’t be helped as his face heats up at the scandalized tone of her voice. “They’re not mine!” Harry protests.   
  
“Well who’s are they then?” Ron presses.   
  
Frustrated, Harry slams his textbook shut and abruptly stands to his feet. The withering look he gives his two best friends is the last they see of him before he growls out, “I’m going to bed.” As he exits the common room, he can hear the couple whispering conspiratorially, much to his exasperation.   
  
It can’t be helped, he supposes. With Hermione now in the know, they’re bound to find out soon enough. The very thought of his friends ever finding out what Malfoy, specifically Malfoy in a skirt and knickers, does to him is daunting but an inevitability. There is no telling how long before the pair pieces things together, and Harry decides that he’ll break it off before it ever comes to that point.   
  
It won’t be difficult, he reasons to himself as he makes his way to the boy’s bathroom. He debates discussing things with Malfoy like a responsible adult would or simply ignoring him for the rest of their short term. The latter option is very tempting, and very close to becoming Harry’s choice. They already had been barely talking to begin with, it wouldn’t be impossible for Harry to go right back to never speaking to the blonde ever again.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely registers the other figure already there at one of the sinks when he arrives, and he nearly trips over himself once he realizes that it is the very subject of his thoughts. Malfoy is stood alone at his own sink, wrapped in a thin white robe that drapes over his slender frame rather nicely. Harry admires the way the fabric clings to his arse, and in the reflection of the mirror, he thinks he can just barely make out the shadow of a nipple under the almost-sheer material. The front of his robe is tied tightly, covering all the way up to just the base of his adam’s apple where his love bite still rests, half-peeking out in a much more muted purple.

In his staring, Malfoy notices Harry and offers a demure smile, as if abashed by his state of near-undress, as though Harry had not been buried up his arse mere hours ago. It’s unerringly endearing somehow.

“Potter,” Malfoy addresses him with a quiet murmur. Grey eyes dip to the toothbrush and tube of toothpaste in Harry’s hands before refocusing on his reflection.

“Er, hello, Malfoy,” Harry barely gets out before beginning the job of brushing his teeth.

It’s difficult in his state of distraction. He watches Malfoy’s movements as if compelled to, unable to look away and solely focus on his own task. Malfoy takes his time in prepping himself with various potions and creams, each substance sinking into his pale skin and making him glow with a faint, pearlescent sheen. The resulting look makes him look ethereal, almost other-worldly. Harry finishes brushing his teeth and doesn’t even realize he’s still staring until Malfoy packs up his things and heads for the door.

“Hey, Malfoy?” Harry calls out, his mouth moving faster than any neurons in his head at the moment.

Malfoy pauses by the door, hand placed on the golden knob as he looks over his shoulder at Harry. Standing there in his hugging robe, the light fighting hard to permeate the fabric and make it less opaque, he looks every bit a vision of dignified beauty. His hair looks soft to the touch, and with experience, Harry knows that it is. It isn’t styled as it usually is, instead resting on his forehead casually, the ends curling in a way Harry had not known it able to. The shine of his lips is dizzying, and after having seen Malfoy apply gloss to them only moments earlier, Harry now understands where they get their usual shimmer.

Politely, Malfoy clears his throat. There is clear amusement in his glittering eyes as he asks, “Yes?”

“You’re brilliant at potions, right?” Harry inquires, hoping he knows what he’s doing.

The question causes Malfoy to retract his hand from the door and wrap his arms around himself. “Well, if you’re asking, I must not be very.”

“Shut up,” Harry snorts, “I wanted to ask if you could help tutor me? Say, tomorrow?”

Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it. He spends several moments alternating between gaping and pursing his lips at Harry before finally nodding and Harry’s chest sings in success.

“It’s a date,” Malfoy blurts out before vacating the room in haste, practically slamming the door shut in Harry’s face.

Before he can even think to stop himself, he’s already grinning, so widely that it doesn’t take long before his cheeks begin to ache. Suddenly, he remembers what he had been planning prior to running into Malfoy, thoughts of breaking this off and ignoring Malfoy for the rest of the year. His chest protests very clearly at the idea, unwilling to even entertain the thought of leaving Malfoy now.

Harry is so utterly fucked.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this turned out wayyy longer than planned originally but i mean hey, the more the merrier. hope you guys enjoyed !


	3. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there! thank you all again for patiently waiting! once again this turned out so fucking long. i am physically incapable of writing a chapter less than 5k. enjoy !

For the first time in Harry’s life, he finds himself desperately wishing for lunch to be over.   
  
The clattering of utensils against plates is unnaturally loud today, the noise grating to Harry’s eardrums. He tries to distract himself by focusing on his own food, but even then, it doesn’t help. When another spoonful of mashed potatoes does absolutely nothing, Harry resorts to bouncing his leg up and down, forcing himself to zero in on the movement of his leg.   
  
He’s not nervous. Absolutely not, he tells himself. He’s a bloody Gryffindor after all, a true one if the sword of Gryffindor has anything to say. He’s faced basilisks and dementors and dark wizards. Harry Potter is not nervous. Except he absolutely fucking is and it’s all because of Draco sodding Malfoy.   
  
_ It’s a date _ , the blond had said, his voice ringing through Harry’s ears now as he recalls the memory from last night. It had been extremely difficult to keep his excitement at bay afterward, tossing and turning in his bed until the wee hours when he finally gave himself up to sleep. Even now, after having only been able to sleep a mere three hours, Harry is still eager and just a touch anxious. Just a touch, he reminds himself. Because Gryffindors don’t  _ get _ nervous, they  _ have _ nerve.   
  
The ball of trepidation that has made itself a home in Harry’s gut makes its presence known once again, weighing heavily at the pit of his stomach. He’s only mere minutes away from free period, minutes away from his date. With Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy who has occupied Harry’s thoughts constantly for the past three days now, and seems to make no sign of ever letting up. Harry’s dreams last night had been of smooth pale skin and gleaming white-blond hair; he smiles at the memory.   
  
“If you keep doing that, you’ll shake the whole table away,” Hermione scolds.    
  
Harry’s smile disappears as he responds, “Didn’t know you thought me so strong.” He immediately regrets the retort when he looks up to meet Hermione’s icy stare and quickly mumbles an apology.   
  
It is the first thing Hermione has said to him all day since the unfinished conversation from last night. Ron had been kinder, having at the very least exchanged a few obligatory words during classes. Neither of them is truly mad at him, or at least Harry hopes so. He understands that Hermione’s annoyance really stems from her irritation at not knowing everything she possibly can. Ron, on the other hand, is just a bit sulky over his best friend title not being enough for Harry to divulge his deepest secrets to.   
  
Hermione chews on her upper lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she stares down at her plate. She has the most obvious tells, Harry considers, even more so than Ron and his mood ring of a face. From the intense staring at her plate of roast chicken to the awkward gnawing of her chapped lips, Harry can tell that she’s gearing herself up for something. Likely, it has something to do with the sideways conversation of Harry’s knickers, as Ron had so helpfully dubbed the issue. Harry knows he’s guessed correctly when Hermione finally lifts her gaze from her meal and over to Harry again.   
  
“You’re nervous,” she states bluntly. “Or excited. What is it with you today?”   
  
_ A lot of things _ , Harry thinks.  _ It could have to do with Draco Malfoy, or the bloke in a skirt sitting on the other side of the table, or the ex-Slytherin that Harry has himself a date with, or his former rival that he’s been shagging on the side. Oh wait, those are all Malfoy. _   
  
Harry clears his throat and takes a quick sip of his water. “I’m not sure what you mean, ‘Mione.”   
  
Ron throws him a look of exasperation over his own goblet while Hermione huffs in response.   
  
“You’ve been out of focus more than usual and your leg—which is still twitching,  _ stop it _ —has not ceased movement for the entire day.” Hermione lets her fork clatter to the plate before her, the resulting sound making Harry wince. “So what has you all up in knots?”   
  
“Can’t a bloke just be happy?” Harry tries, waving a lazy hand. “Am I not allowed any happy days now that Voldemort is gone?”   
  
Hermione’s mouth twists, clearly displeased with his answer. She drums her fingertips against the surface of the table, blinking rapidly as if rethinking her strategy. Harry finds himself struggling to hide the smug smile that’s found its way onto his lips from having stumped the bright woman.   
  
“Lay off of him, yeah?” Ron finally speaks. Harry shoots Ron a grateful look, which the ginger ignores. “Besides, it’s obvious this is about his mystery girlfriend.”   
  
“I don’t have a mystery girlfriend,” Harry replies, automatic.   
  
“Right, of course,” Ron responds smoothly. “So I’m to assume you just happen to have a pair of knickers like some pervert.”   
  
Harry nearly flips his plate over in shock. “Pervert? Ron, what the fu—“   
  
“You say they’re not yours, Harry!” Ron shoots back. “So who else’s could they be? Either they belong to the girl you’re shagging or you stole them.”   
  
Harry’s face heats up at the insinuation. As if Harry would ever do anything so perverse. And what a headline it would make— _ The Boy Who Saved Us All: Known Panty Raider _ . Harry scowls as Ron steals a scoop of mashed potatoes, looking triumphant as he pops the spoon into his mouth.  _ Git _ , Harry thinks. Ron’s expression turns positively gleeful from Harry’s lack of response. Hermione, still sat across from the both of them, looks on in astonishment at her boyfriend’s deduction and Harry’s silence.   
  
Harry shuts his eyes for a moment, and even then, he can feel the stares of his best friends. It all feels so pointless to hold off when they’re so close to the truth, but he still finds trouble in properly forming the words. He knows by now that he likes Malfoy, to an extent. There’s certainly something interesting about the other man, and he always has seemed to be able to hold Harry’s attention, even in the most negative ways. There’s always the added benefit of Malfoy having the most lovely arse Harry has ever been given the privilege to lay eyes on. All that aside, one does not go about announcing to their friends that they quite possibly fancy their ex-rival. Even just the tiniest bit.   
  
When Harry’s eyes open again, his gaze lands on Malfoy, sat on the other end of the eighth year table between Parkinson and Zabini. He listens intently to whatever Zabini has to say, even if it is with a bored expression. As Zabini makes a grand gesture, Malfoy rolls his eyes, gaze dropping to his hands as he fiddles with his purple tie.   
  
Harry’s expression softens then as he keeps his eyes trained on the blond man, taking in his angular features and soft hair that shines under the midday sunlight that filters through the large windows of the Great Hall. His glow is not unlike the one Harry had seen on him the night before in the bathroom. Still covered in a gossamer sheen, but much warmer. It adds to the usual shine of his lips, silken pink that pop out against his ivory skin.   
  
Just then, as if sensing Harry’s stare, Malfoy looks up and catches Harry’s gaze. From across the table, the pair exchange looks, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. Harry swears his heart skips a beat when Malfoy flashes a small, private smile before returning his attention to his own meal and friends, albeit with pinker cheeks.   
  
_ Cute _ , Harry thinks.   
  
The image is ruined by Parkinson, who comes into Harry’s field of vision, sneering with apparent distaste. That alone is enough for him to finally tear his gaze away from Malfoy. It appears that she has not forgotten what happened yesterday after Charms class, or figured it out. He wonders what she might be thinking in that head of hers. Judging from the constant glaring he’s experienced on her end all day, it probably isn’t very good. Harry snorts to himself—if only she knew what Harry had actually been doing with Malfoy.   
  
“Okay, say I’m shagging someone,” Harry entertains the thought aloud, ignoring Ron and Hermione’s twin looks of surprise. “What does it even matter?”   
  
“What does it—Mate, of course it matters!” Ron insists reverently. “This is—this could be  _ her _ . You know, the one. Like my ‘Mione.”   
  
Hermione’s cheeks flush at his words. “Ron...”   
  
Harry fights the urge to roll his eyes, even if he finds Ron’s honesty a bit sweet. “It’s nothing like that, and I doubt it’ll even get to that point.”   
  
Harry snorts. Malfoy? Being the Hermione to his Ron... What a silly notion. Harry dismisses the thought with a mental shake of his head.   
  
“Oh, I see now,” Hermione hums. She nods sagely at Harry, brown eyes wide. “You want to see if things can be serious with her before you tell us.”   
  
Ron sobers up considerably. “Oh— _ oh _ . I get it.” He pats Harry’s shoulder awkwardly. “Sorry for pushing you.”   
  
Harry blinks owlishly. That was all he needed to say to get them off his back? It seems ridiculous now, all of his inner turmoil at not being able to be completely honest with them. If only he had admitted things sooner.   
  
He considers arguing further—because really, that should not have been as easy at it had been—but he sees Malfoy move out of the corner of his eye, rising from his seat and leaning to whisper in Parkinson’s ear. Whatever it is he says, Parkinson does not seem pleased, merely crossing her arms and setting her lips into a deep frown. Zabini, on the other hand, casts a curious look over at Harry, clearly having overheard whatever it is that Malfoy had to say. Malfoy straightens then, giving Harry a pointed look before heading towards the doors of the Great Hall, skirt swishing behind him.   
  
Harry stands abruptly. “Right, thanks for being so understanding, guys. I’ve got to go.”   
  
“Oh? But lunch hasn’t ended yet—“ Hermione begins.   
  
Ron cuts her off quickly, “Let him go, love. He’s probably off to see  _ her _ .”   
  
“Actually, I’m off to see Malfoy,” Harry admits, mouth working faster than his mind.   
  
“What?”   
  
_ Shite _ . Harry’s mind goes blank in trying to come up with a lie, the beating of his heart racing in time with the gears he can clearly see turning in Hermione’s head.   
  
“Yes. I’m going to the library. With Malfoy. Er, yeah,” Harry finishes lamely.   
  
“Uh, why?” Ron questions.   
  
“Um, well. He’s tutoring me, you see,” Harry lets slip in one breath. Hermione and Ron exchange looks of disbelief.   
  
Their curiosity, despite having just been quelled moments ago, flares up again and Harry curses himself. He was already in the clear! He had them off his back! And yet he had to go open his stupid mouth and land himself back to square one. Ron looks spectacularly befuddled while Hermione looks as though she’s been slapped by Harry’s admission.   
  
“You needed tutoring, and you asked him?” she asks, disbelieving.   
  
“It’s in potions,” Harry answers in explanation. He gives a half shouldered shrug, attempting a picture at nonchalance.   
  
Hermione scoffs with a frown. “Right.”   
  
Ron, on the other hand, merely shakes his head. “You’ve just never done things the easy way, huh?”   
  
Harry isn’t quite sure what Ron means by that. Life certainly hasn’t been the easiest for Harry. Complicated was woven into his destiny before he was even conceived. Except, none of that was planned or of his own will, he just had to take it. Now there’s Malfoy, an extremely complicated addition to his life, and he finds himself wanting it. Badly. He looks over at the doors of the Great Hall again and realizes he should have left by now.   
  
“I’ve got to go now, I’ll see you guys in Transfigurations.”   
  
Dutifully ignoring their baffled looks, Harry steps away from the table and exits the Great Hall.   
  
When he reaches the library, he’s surprised to find a lack of students. Harry supposes that the lot of them have decided to take advantage of the cooler weather of the day, as he swears he saw multitudes of students out by the lake on his way out from the Great Hall. Thoughts of lying out on the warm grass while under the shade of a tree are very appealing. Especially when coupled with thoughts of Malfoy, sprawled against the bark of said tree, legs fallen apart and skirt pushed up to give Harry a delicious view of his cock.   
  
Harry pauses in his search of Malfoy to give himself a mental slap. His cock has already begun to twitch in anticipation, clearly very interested in the naughty thoughts Harry is having.  _ You’re here for tutoring _ , he reminds himself,  _ not hanky panky _ . Except it’s not very easy to completely erase the fantasy his mind has conjured and completely stuck itself to—Harry fingering Malfoy against the tree as the blond fights to keep his sounds quiet, as there are still others out by the lake as well.   
  
His thoughts are cut off abruptly when he finally spots Malfoy, sitting against one of the wooden desks by the window. The outline of his form gleams with sunlight, once again making his hair shine as it had during lunch. He’s perched on the very edge of the desk, full arse sat heavily on the edge as his skirt rides up from the position, exposing the tops of his thighs. Behind him sits a small stack of books and Harry smiles slightly at the thought of Malfoy having come prepared. The vision is enticing, and Harry moves to join him before he catches sight of another figure.   
  
Stood across Malfoy, leaning heavily on a column, is Jared Ainsworth. Harry recognizes the seventh year easily, even as the student is half obscured by the shelf Harry hides behind. Ainsworth is tall, practically Harry’s height, and fit. Harry knows from having seen him in the boy’s shower room in fifth year after a quidditch game against Hufflepuff. Ainsworth seems to have only gotten fitter over the years, and he’s currently grinning down at Malfoy with perfect pearly whites, leering over Malfoy’s form.   
  
So it appears Harry isn’t the only one who’s noticed how Malfoy looks in a skirt. Hackles already rising, Harry refrains himself from stepping out just yet. Instead, he strains to listen in on what Ainsworth is saying, face paling when he catches onto his words.   
  
“Who knew you had such nice legs, Malfoy?” Ainsworth says. Harry sees Malfoy visibly tighten his legs, pressing them close together.   
  
“Nice to hear they’re appreciated,” Malfoy drawls, but it doesn’t sound so biting, instead taking on an almost nervous tone. He tugs at the hem of the skirt, a futile attempt to cover more of his thighs. Ainsworth simply watches the movement, eyes clearly hungry for a better view. Harry’s blood thunders through his veins at the look on Ainsworth’s face.   
  
The seventh year straightens from his casual position and takes a step closer. “I can appreciate more than that.”   
  
Malfoy raises an eyebrow and scoots a tad bit farther back onto the table. “That’s, um, quite alright, thank you.”   
  
Ainsworth chuckles, taking another step forward until he’s right by Malfoy’s knees. “Aw, don’t be such a prude,” he teases. Malfoy cringes as Ainsworth raises a hand to pet at his thigh, and that’s when Harry sees red.   
  
Unable to stand back any longer, Harry calls out, voice forcibly cheery, “Malfoy!”    
  
Malfoy looks over at Harry when he strides over, eyes wide and shocked by the welcome intrusion. Ainsworth takes a couple steps away from Malfoy in a hurry, letting out a startled noise when his back hits the column he had previously been resting on. His hand, the one that had been on Malfoy’s thigh, is shoved into the pocket of his trousers with lightning speed.   
  
“Potter!” Ainsworth exclaims, demeanor jittery as he feigns innocence.   
  
Deliberately stepping in front of Malfoy, Harry crosses his arms and gives Ainsworth an unimpressed look. “Oh, hello, Ainsworth. Not bothering anyone today, are we?”   
  
“N-no,” Ainsworth quickly assures, looking close to pissing his pants as he shoots a pleading look at Malfoy. “Not at all. I’d best be going now anyways.”   
  
The seventh year wastes no time in grabbing his bag from the floor and scurrying away, likely out of the library for the rest of the day.  _ Serves him right _ , Harry thinks as he watches Ainsworth’s retreating form. Harry turns to Malfoy then with a shit eating grin, only to falter when he sees the agitated look on the other man’s face.   
  
“I was handling that,” Malfoy says blankly.   
  
Harry huffs out a brief laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you were,” he mutters.    
  
Ignoring Malfoy’s scowl, Harry maneuvers himself around the table and into one of the seats. Malfoy remains seated on the desk, simply swinging his legs around to face the side Harry sits at. Harry stares at his long, long legs, still closed tightly. At Harry’s vantage point, he would have a clear view up them, if only Malfoy would relax his legs a bit.   
  
“I mean it,” Malfoy insists, clearly still peeved. “I think I should know how to deal with horndogs like Ainsworth.”   
  
Harry arches an eyebrow at him. “Oh, like how you dealt with me?”   
  
Malfoy flushes immediately at that, mouth opening and clamping shut as he attempts to form words. Chuckling, Harry reaches forward to tease at the hem of Malfoy’s skirt, rubbing the material between his fingers. The knuckle of his thumb brushes lightly against Malfoy’s skin, making him shiver.   
  
“Potter,” Malfoy grinds out. A pale hand drops down to Harry’s own, ceasing his movements. “That’s different.”   
  
“I’d just rather you not be flirting with other guys right before our date,” Harry admits candidly, with a hint of bitterness.   
  
Malfoy’s grip on his hand tightens as he splutters indignantly, “I wasn’t flirting! And this isn’t—this isn’t a date.”   
  
“I distinctly remember you telling me this is a date.”   
  
“Don’t be daft, Potter,” Malfoy says, voice croaking as his cheeks further darken. “I said  _ don’t be late _ . Merlin, the state of your ears...”   
  
“Right.” Harry doesn’t retract his hand, only moving once Malfoy’s hand loosens over his. He slides his hand over to cover the top of Malfoy’s thigh, replacing the spot Ainsworth had touched, and slips his fingers into the space between Malfoy’s pale thighs, massaging lightly.

Instinctively, Malfoy parts his legs at the sensation, eyes glazing slightly. Harry continues his ministrations, kneading the sensitive skin there until Malfoy’s legs part fully, giving Harry a proper view up his skirt. His mouth parts as he takes in the sight of Malfoy’s knickers for the day—baby pink with lace trimming, the bulge of Malfoy’s cock shadowing some of the material. Malfoy reddens when he realizes that Harry is staring in between his legs, and he closes his legs suddenly, trapping Harry’s hand there. Harry yelps as his hand is crushed by the force of Malfoy’s surprisingly strong thighs, pouting when the sight of Malfoy’s knickers disappear entirely.   
  
“I’m not dealing with a randy Potter right now,” Malfoy hisses.   
  
Harry takes his hand back and scoffs. “And you’d rather deal with a randy Ainsworth?”   
  
“Why on earth would I let Ainsworth pull me?” Malfoy asks, clearly affronted by the idea.   
  
“I don’t know,” Harry shoots back, unable to stop his mouth from running. “He was awfully close to getting his hands on you just now.”   
  
Malfoy glowers at Harry, grey eyes steely in colour as they meet each other’s hard stares. After a beat, he hops off of the desk, landing forcefully on his feet. “I’m not tutoring you if you’re going to be a git,” Malfoy spits out.   
  
He makes a move to grab his bag, which has been set on the table, but is stopped from completely walking away when Harry stands to grab Malfoy’s hand.   
  
“Wait!” Harry cries out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m annoyed with Ainsworth, not you.”   
  
Malfoy turns to face Harry again, expression impassive. Then, he narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Harry’s face as though looking for the slightest hint of insincerity. Harry shuffles his feet under the inspection, unable to help the habit as Malfoy’s grey eyes roam over his face.   
  
“Alright then,” Malfoy finally says. He shoots a curious glance up at Harry. “What have you even got against Ainsworth anyways?”   
  
Harry stiffens before pulling Malfoy closer, just slightly. “You saw how he looked at you.”

Ainsworth’s ravenous look is ingrained into Harry’s mind, the Hufflepuff having gazed down at Malfoy as though he were his to eat. And it is unfortunate how Harry really can’t blame Ainsworth, especially when he himself knows exactly how attractive Malfoy is. It pisses him off, regardless, and his chest aches at the very thought of Ainsworth ever getting near Malfoy like that again. Only Harry should be able to touch Malfoy like that.

Harry pauses in his thoughts. Since when had he gotten so possessive over the Slytherin git?   
  
Malfoy hums knowingly. “Jealous now, are we, Potter?”   
  
Harry blushes at his words, able to spot the smugness on Malfoy’s expression from a mile away. Malfoy allows himself to be pulled even closer to Harry, stumbling a bit as Harry tugs him close. They end up within each other’s space, pressed flush up against each other as Harry keeps his hold on Malfoy’s hand.    
  
“I hope it’s alright with you that I don’t like sharing,” Harry lets out in a low voice, so close to Malfoy’s face that their lips nearly brush against each other as he speaks.   
  
Malfoy merely grins before stepping away and out of Harry’s grip. He moves around to sit down at one of the chairs, setting his bag down onto the table once again. When Harry gives him a questioning look, Malfoy rolls his eyes teasingly.   
  
“Well, come on then, better get back to our date.”   
  
Harry gives a lopsided grin. “I thought you said this wasn’t a date.”   
  
Malfoy gives a lazy shrug of his shoulder. “Just get your arse over here.”   
  
Malfoy dives into tutoring the moment Harry takes the seat beside him, eyes lighting up as he talks animatedly about potions. How anyone could ever be so passionate about such a boring subject, Harry will never understand. What he does understand now, however, is how Ron can look so besotted when Hermione goes off on one of her educational tangents. It’s fascinating the way Malfoy speaks and relays the information to Harry, hands gesticulating wildly when he really tries to prove his point. Despite Harry’s complete lack of interest in the academic field, he has to admit that Malfoy is rather good at teaching. It may also be an added bonus that Malfoy is a complete delight to look at—flushed pink cheeks and bright eyes.   
  
Throughout the lesson, Harry finds himself noticing little things about the man before him. To begin with, Malfoy is left handed. He isn’t sure why he is so enthralled by the discovery, but he’s oddly endeared by the thought of Malfoy being the opposite of him in even that. He also notices the way Malfoy runs a finger along his bottom lip when he’s lost in thought, the tip of his finger sliding back and forth against the glossy pink of his lip in an addictive motion.   
  
By the end of the tutoring session, Harry is surprised to find that he actually understands the subject matter much better now, and is likely to impress Professor Slughorn a great deal during their exam on Friday. Malfoy has a pleased smile on his face as he returns the books to their respective shelves now, Harry following behind him not unlike that of a puppy to its owner. They turn into another section, only two books left in Malfoy’s arms now.   
  
“You did well today, I think you’ll do great on the exam,” Malfoy admits as he reaches up to let go of one of the books. Grey eyes travel the book’s movement upwards until the heavy tome magically returns to its initial spot on the shelf.   
  
Malfoy walks a couple steps further before planting himself by the shelves again. From Harry’s side view, Malfoy looks breathtaking, stood on his tippy toes as he reaches up to put another book away, long legs on full display and perky arse pushing out as he strains upwards. It seems that his objective is much closer than the other books had been, not requiring the usual library charms that allow for the automatic return of a book. However, he isn’t quite the height for it, and instead he settles back onto his heels, skirt bouncing. Harry’s mouth twitches in fondness as Malfoy pouts, frowning down at the book in his hands.   
  
In a moment of boldness, Harry asks, “Do I get a reward?”   
  
The look he is given is one of amusement, Malfoy’s lips curling upward into a knowing smirk. “How typical, I should have known you wouldn’t last very long.”   
  
Malfoy returns to his task of returning the book and keeps his profile to Harry. Harry uses the opportunity to sidle up behind the blond quietly, taking the book from Malfoy’s hand and easily placing it back in it’s spot on the shelf. The small gesture reminds the both of them of the easy height Harry now holds over the other man, and Malfoy sits back on his heels in defeat. In his movement, he inadvertently presses back into Harry, the action causing his breathing to hitch in surprise at the sudden contact.   
  
It doesn’t escape Harry’s attention that this section of the library is very much lacking in people.   
  
Harry can hear the change in of Malfoy’s breathing, much quicker now, when he leans in to plant a soft, open mouthed kiss to the back of his neck, sucking lightly at the skin there. For a few tense moments, Malfoy doesn’t move. The blond is completely frozen to the spot as Harry continues to kiss and nip at his neck, moving to the side and suckling at the spot of sensitive flesh under Malfoy’s earlobe. Once Harry’s lips meet there, Malfoy practically slumps back onto Harry, head lolling to the side to give better access, silently begging for more.   
  
“I do better with incentives, darling,” Harry murmurs against the now damp skin. He places his hands on Malfoy’s hips, thumbing at the dip in his back and feeling the way Malfoy shivers under his touch.   
  
“Potter,” his voice comes out sounding thick and strangled, “we’re in the library.”   
  
Harry hums and presses even closer, making sure Malfoy can feel his erection even through the layers of their clothes. He’s positive in his success when he feels the shift of Malfoy’s hips, pushing back against Harry almost hungrily. The pressure causes the slight bulge of Harry’s trousers to create a dip in Malfoy’s skirt, pressing in between his cheeks.   
  
“Didn’t stop us in the common room,” Harry points out.   
  
A flush rises to Malfoy’s cheeks, visible even from Harry’s spot behind him as the ruddiness spreads down to his neck.   
  
“We have to be quick,” Malfoy bites out, acquiescing.   
  
“Oh, I know.” Harry leans in to nip at Malfoy’s earlobe, then moves on to kissing at his jaw. It’s deadly quiet in the space they occupy, save for the soft smack of Harry’s lips moving against the cut of Malfoy’s jaw.   
  
When Harry can no longer reach any farther, Malfoy turns his head to capture Harry’s lips into a searing kiss as Harry’s hands begin to travel downwards from their place on Malfoy’s hips. He rubs at the sides of Malfoy’s thighs, stroking the soft skin there before moving inwards to nudge them apart.   
  
“Let’s see those pretty pink panties of yours,” Harry breathes against Malfoy’s lips. He slips a hand under Malfoy’s skirt, fingers searching, now familiar with the motion. When he grips onto Malfoy’s arse, he’s surprised to find it bare.   
  
Harry pulls back slightly to flip the back of the skirt up. He takes a shaky breath as he realizes that the knickers he had seen earlier are a  _ thong _ . A choked noise comes out of him as he his palms move of their own accord, roving over the expanse of exposed skin in reverie. Malfoy’s arse looks fucking incredible, his cheeks framed delicately by the baby pink strip of fabric, the colour complimenting the pale skin that surrounds it.  _ And to think he had been wearing these all day _ , Harry marvels. His cock throbs pointedly, matching the pounding in his ears as he continues to observe the sight before him.   
  
“Malfoy...” Harry barely recognizes the deep timbre that his voice has taken on.   
  
Over his shoulder, Malfoy shoots Harry a sultry look. “I may have anticipated your wanting a reward.”   
  
Harry squeezes Malfoy’s arse once more before tracing the line of fabric with the tip of his finger, stopping once he catches onto the furled hole of Malfoy’s arse, clearly felt even through the thin cloth. Malfoy feels it as well, if the tiny gasp he emits is any indication. For a moment, Harry’s finger lingers, tracing around the rim but never more. Malfoy pushes his hips out slightly more towards Harry in response, but Harry merely continues on with his teasing.   
  
“Well, shite. I wonder what the prize will be when I pass my exam.”   
  
Strangled laughter spills out of Malfoy’s mouth. “Come on now, I said we have to be quick.”   
  
As Malfoy braces his hands against the shelf before him, Harry undoes his own trousers quickly, barely shoving them down before pulling his cock out. He’s already hard, the head of his cock flushed a deep red from arousal and he can barely resist as he pushes his hips forward. The action causes his cock to rub into the cleft of Malfoy’s arse, sliding up between his cheeks as if it were made to be there. Malfoy moans softly at the contact of bare skin and Harry reaches forward to cup at Malfoy’s own erection, squeezing as he shifts his hips again.   
  
“Think I could come like this,” Harry admits, voice gruff.   
  
Malfoy shakes his head and huffs out, “I’m not tutoring you for free, Potter. I’ll take payment in the form of your cock in me.”   
  
In response, Harry rocks his hips once, making Malfoy whimper at the friction. Harry has half a mind to cast a silencing spell, or at least tell Malfoy to quiet down. Except, he can’t deny the thrill of possibly being caught in the act, other students possibly only a section or so down. His cock pulses with need at the thought of some unsuspecting student passing by now and overhearing Malfoy’s little noises. His mind flashes to his earlier fantasies of Malfoy by the lake, fighting to keep quiet for the sake of everyone else around them.

“You want my cock in you?” Harry whispers then, voice filthy in Malfoy’s ear. “Want me to fuck you against these shelves?”   
  
Malfoy hangs his head, nodding, his shoulders tense with anticipation. He’s completely hard already, Harry can feel his stiffness, even deigning to give a teasing squeeze. Malfoy keens quietly at the touch, hips shifting in an unsure motion, clearly unable to determine whether he wants more pressure on his arse or cock.    
  
“Prove it to me, darling,” Harry orders in a low tone. He squeezes Malfoy’s hip with his free hand, guiding him backwards to rub imperceptibly onto his cock.   
  
Harry doesn’t have to explain any further. Malfoy moves immediately, shifting and rotating his hips back onto Harry’s cock. A bead of precum forms at the slit of Harry’s cock, trembling for a moment before sliding down and slicking the way for him, allowing him to slide freely between Malfoy’s cheeks. Malfoy clenches his buttocks around Harry, the grip of his now slippery soft skin relentless as he continues to grind his arse back onto Harry’s thickness.

Harry had meant it when he said he could come just from this. He watches, completely enraptured, as his reddened cock slips up and down Malfoy’s arse, the tip flushed nearly purple from the pressure. Malfoy doesn’t stop, not even when they hear footsteps nearby, opting to keep rocking against Harry, as though stopping might be the end of the world for him.

“So good, darling,” Harry encourages. He is no longer able to restrain himself, easily thrusting up to meet with Malfoy’s arse. “So good for me.”   
  
Malfoy doesn’t stop, but he sounds desperate as he rasps out, “Fingers. Need your fingers in me.”   
  
“Yeah?” Harry asks teasingly. He pulls aside the thin strap of fabric to expose Malfoy’s hole to an already lubed finger, rubbing the pad of his finger against the wrinkled skin. “You really need it?”

Malfoy attempts to push back, but Harry merely pulls his hand away, chuckling lowly as Malfoy whines. He presses back again, feeling the rim of Malfoy’s hole before pressing in slightly. The tip of his finger breaches Malfoy’s tightness just slightly before pulling out once again. He repeats the motion, only barely entering the tight rim. Malfoy swears under his breath and wiggles impatiently against Harry’s finger.

“Potter, if your finger isn’t inside my arse in the next— _ oh! _ ” Malfoy breaks off into a high pitched wail, slumping against the bookshelf as Harry pushes his finger in fully. He pumps in easily, allowing the satin feel of Malfoy’s insides to suck his finger in with each slide. 

“You were saying?” Harry mocks, voice sickly sweet. He inserts another finger then, pressing and prodding at Malfoy’s inner walls in an effort to stretch him quickly. Malfoy’s hole, pink and stretched obscenely around his fingers, accommodate quickly to Harry’s thick fingers. Malfoy pants heavily, his hips shifting restlessly against Harry’s fingers as they fuck into him.

At the feel of a third finger, Malfoy outright moans. The sound echoes in the empty space around them and Harry is reminded again of the very public area they are occupying. With his free hand, he reaches up to turn Malfoy’s head, planting his lips firmly onto Malfoy’s own shiny, pink ones to quell his noises. Malfoy throws himself into the kiss, opening his mouth and allowing Harry to lick into the heat of his mouth. Harry’s fingers are moving faster now, rubbing against the edges of Malfoy’s prostate, but not quite on the mark yet.   
  
Malfoy’s moans are drowned in Harry’s mouth with each push of his fingers. Faintly, Harry registers the taste of cinnamon and vanilla on Malfoy’s lips and groans, having missed this taste. Malfoy’s hips are bucking wildly now, seeking more and more from Harry, more than what his fingers alone can give. Without any warning, Harry slips his fingers out and replaces it with his previously neglected cock, pressing the head against the rim of Malfoy’s opened hole and sliding in.   
  
The movement isn’t very graceful, and he slams into Malfoy so hard that the blond nearly topples the damn shelf over. But then, with a sort of practiced ease, Malfoy finds his balance again and clutches for dear life onto the shelves as Harry pounds into him again. Harry breaks away from the kiss to focus on the slick heat of Malfoy’s arse, deliciously tight and clenching rhythmically around him with each thrust. In an effort to contain his sounds, Malfoy presses his mouth into the bicep of his right arm, which is braced against the wood of the shelf before them.   
  
Harry watches as his cock slides in and out of Malfoy’s rosy hole, the colour nearly matching the blush pink of the panties he’s still wearing. A soft groan comes from deep within Harry, and he struggles to keep himself upright as he continues to fuck away into Malfoy’s tight channel. Malfoy isn’t doing any better, legs trembling from the effort of keeping on his toes and upright against the shelf. Even then, he thrusts his hips back to meet in time with Harry’s own thrusts, no doubt exerting much more effort than required.   
  
Harry is vaguely aware of the noisy slapping of skin against skin, indubitably loud enough to carry over several library sections, but he finds he couldn’t care any less at the moment. Instead, he whips his hips faster, allowing the moan that escapes Malfoy’s lips as Harry angles his hips to hit that sweet spot over and over again.   
  
Heavy footsteps sound from Harry’s right and he abruptly stills, balls deep inside Malfoy’s arse, and flips Malfoy’s skirt back down quickly. The fabric covers Harry’s cock and Malfoy’s arse awkwardly, rucked up in an unnatural fashion. Malfoy whines lightly at the sudden lack of movement, wiggling his hips until Harry pinches the soft flesh where thighs become buttocks. Almost immediately, Malfoy stills against Harry, and just in time as Anthony Goldstein walks in.   
  
Harry groans inwardly.  _ You have got to be shitting me _ , he thinks nastily as he watches Goldstein look over a selection of books only two shelves over. Goldstein takes his time in inspecting each book, eyes narrowing as he runs a finger down the spine of one of the newer volumes. In the silence, Malfoy has broken out into a fit of sweat, heavy droplets dripping down from his forehead and onto his crisp, white school shirt. His body is pulled taut, shoulders set into a tense line as he holds his breath, fearing the mere sound of his breathing.   
  
Harry attempts to calm him by rubbing a soothing hand against the jut of his hip bone. Goldstein makes no move to indicate a departure any time soon, and it’s evident in the way Malfoy’s knuckles tighten that there isn’t much more that Malfoy can take before he breaks. As if sensing Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy moves then. Still on his tippy toes, he bounces on his heels slightly, creating the tiniest bit of movement against Harry’s cock. Harry grits his teeth, feeling the action throughout his entire body. His thighs feel as though they’re on fire as he braves the weight of Malfoy’s unforgiving hips which snap down and up in a barely there movement, his arse clenching the entire way.   
  
Before he can stop himself, a low moan exits Harry and he grips Malfoy’s hip tightly on the side Goldstein can’t see. At the strange sound, Goldstein looks over at them, expression a strange mixture of confusion and disbelief. Harry dutifully pretends to inspect a dusty tome over Malfoy’s shoulder while Malfoy himself stares straight forward, blush prominent on his cheeks.   
  
“Oh, Harry!” Goldstein calls out. He takes a step towards the two and Malfoy curses lightly under his breath.   
  
_ You brought this upon us _ , Harry thinks.   
  
“Er, hello, Anthony,” Harry grinds out through gritted teeth.   
  
Malfoy hangs his head, panting shallow breaths and Goldstein appears to finally notice him. “Oh, hello, Malfoy.”   
  
Malfoy raises his head and gives Goldstein a pained smile that looks more like a grimace. “Hello, Goldstein,” Malfoy chokes out. The grip he has on the shelf is so tight, Harry fears he might tear a chunk of wood off.   
  
Goldstein doesn’t say anything for a beat, and Harry feels his own forehead begin to pepper with sweat. He hopes and prays to any deity out there that Goldstein doesn’t notice the way Malfoy’s skirt is rumpled in the back or how his feet are slightly raised to accomodate for Harry’s height or how sweaty and disheveled they both look. Harry especially hopes Goldstein doesn’t comment on how close the two are standing, Harry’s cock literally pressed into Malfoy’s arse. They must make such an odd sight, standing together in the library and looking as though they had just run a mile.   
  
“I just came by to grab some NEWT preparation books,” Goldstein explains, as if Harry even cares. He struggles to focus on Goldstein’s words, but finds it near impossible with the way Malfoy’s hole spasms around him, urging him to move despite the present company. “Always good to start early you know?”   
  
Harry nods dumbly, unable to speak. Malfoy doesn’t bother with any facade of interest, simply lowers his head again and rests it against his forearms. He arches his back slightly, causing his hips to move. Harry tightens his grip once again and Malfoy bites his lip to contain a groan, a weird humming noise coming out instead.   
  
“I’ve heard that NEWTs are incredibly difficult, even more than the highest grade WOMBAT,” Goldstein continues on. He tucks the book in his hand under the crook of his arm. “Can you believe something to be so hard?”   
  
Malfoy rocks on his heels again, making Harry choke. “Oh, I can believe it,” Malfoy grumbles, sounding just a touch pained.   
  
Malfoy’s comment earns them both a strange look from Goldstein. “Right. Well, good luck on studying.”   
  
Harry lets out a breath of relief as Goldstein turns away from them, heading back towards the main aisle. Malfoy’s shoulders are shaking with anticipation now, desperate to resume their previous activities. Harry forces himself to stay still and wait until Goldstein has truly left. However, just as the Ravenclaw is about to leave, he turns back and gives Harry and Malfoy a purposeful once over, eyes roving over their sweaty bodies.   
  
“Oh, and I promise I won’t tell anyone that you guys are shagging as long as you promise not to do it in the library again,” Goldstein quips, expression almost comically serious before he turns on his heel and strides away.   
  
Harry looks over at Malfoy in disbelief only to see how red the blond is, clearly mortified at having been caught. Malfoy bangs his head against the wood of the shelf and groans.   
  
“Bloody prefects,” he growls.   
  
“You were a prefect,” Harry points out.   
  
Malfoy shoots him a murderous look, “And I’ll dock house points from you if your cock doesn’t move in the next five seconds.”   
  
Instead of pointing out that Malfoy is no longer a prefect or that as eighth years they don’t even have house points, he pinches Malfoy’s inner thigh. “I should be the one handing out punishments, you little shit, moving around like that while Goldstein was right there!”   
  
Malfoy pouts, full lower lip shining under the light. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it. It hasn’t escaped my notice that all of our meetings have been semi-public in nature.”   
  
In response, Harry raises a hand and smacks it against Malfoy’s right flank, enjoying the feel of the muscle shaking against Harry’s cock. Malfoy yelps at the contact, but eagerly shifts his hips back, as if asking for more. Harry bites his lip to contain his grin, reminded of how Malfoy had moaned when Harry had first smacked his arse the other day.   
  
“You act like it’s just me, but it hasn’t escaped  _ my _ notice how rock hard you are,” Harry growls into Malfoy’s ear. He shoves a hand up Malfoy’s skirt to squeeze at his cock tightly. Malfoy moans openly now, once again sagging against the bookcase and lifting his skirt to present his arse to Harry.   
  
“Please, please fuck me,” Malfoy begs, voice thready. “Make me come already.”   
  
Harry stares at Malfoy’s right cheek, which has turned a bright pink under his heavy hand, before moving his hips back and slamming hard into Malfoy. Harry doesn’t waste any time now, fucking mercilessly into Malfoy and rocking him against the shelves. Malfoy hisses encouragements, moving his own hips wildly to meet with Harry’s erratic thrusts. 

“Yes, yes, oh fuck yes!” Malfoy cries out, nearly sobbing. “Right there! Split me open, oh, Merlin!

Deep in the back of his mind, he thinks they might be making too much noise, but once again, Harry doesn’t care. He pours all of his focus into fucking Malfoy and the feel of Malfoy all around him, hot and wet and addicting. With each drag of his cock, Malfoy’s arse clenches, attempting to keep him inside. Harry pistons his hips even harder at the sensation.   
  
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Malfoy chants over and over, head thumping down onto his arms as he climaxes in his pretty pink panties.   
  
Harry doesn’t stop his own movements, even after Malfoy crumples against the shelf bonelessly from his own orgasm. He continues the drive of his hips, relishing the whimpers of overstimulation from Malfoy as he chases his own release. Finally, Harry comes, hips stuttering as he pours into Malfoy’s tight hole. It feels like forever until he finally finishes off, Malfoy having milked him completely. For a moment, they stay connected, panting in synchronicity and attempting to catch their breaths.   
  
When Harry pulls out of Malfoy, he quickly moves his fingers to Malfoy’s swollen hole, plugging him up with his fingers and keeping the fluids within him. Malfoy grunts at the sensation, but merely parts his legs wider as Harry pushes further. Harry eventually pulls his fingers out before placing the string of Malfoy’s thong back in place. The light fabric soaks slightly as a bit of come and lube trail out of Malfoy’s hole, turning the fabric there into a dull shade of orchid.   
  
Harry tugs the skirt back into place and Malfoy makes an attempt at standing properly, legs a little weak. He makes a show of steadying himself on the shelf before Harry reaches out to hold him instead. Surprisingly, Malfoy submits to the hold and slouches against Harry gratefully. His face forms a grimace at the sticky feel in between his legs and the front of his knickers.   
  
“Cleaning charm?” Malfoy asks Harry.   
  
Harry shakes his head. “I think I’ll keep you like this.”   
  
Malfoy scoffs and pushes himself out of Harry’s arms. “Don’t be disgusting, Potter.”   
  
The look of repulsion on his face melts away once Harry leans in and mouths at Malfoy’s neck, licking at the bead of sweat there. “Want you to keep my come inside you.”   
  
Harry pulls away to catch the spreading blush on Malfoy’s face. “You know I could just cast the cleaning charm myself?” Malfoy points out.   
  
Harry hums and moves in again, this time to kiss Malfoy slowly. Malfoy only hesitates a moment before kissing back, lips parting to grant Harry entrance into that mix of cinnamon and vanilla. Malfoy maneuvers his arms up and around Harry’s neck, pulling him in closer and they stand there together for a while, bodies pressed together as Harry continues his careful exploration of Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy explores right back, tongue running along Harry’s own and entwining the two together with a low moan.   
  
It’s a struggle for Harry to pull away. “You could,” he admits, almost breathlessly. And it’s true, Malfoy is perfectly capable of casting his own cleaning charms. “But you won’t. Because I don’t want you to.”   
  
“Oh?” Malfoy blinks a few times, clearing the haze in his grey eyes. “And I do everything the great Harry Potter tells me to?”   
  
Harry arches an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know,  _ darling _ ,” Harry mocks, lowering his hands to grope at Malfoy’s arse pointedly, earning him a squeak of surprise. “Let’s have a look at your track record.”   
  
“What else should I have expected from a kinky bugger like you?” Malfoy grumbles, slipping away from Harry. Despite this, he makes no move to clean himself, not even the mess in the front of his knickers. Harry merely grins and reaches forward to give Malfoy’s arse one last squeeze before heading off to their last class of the day.   
  
___   
  


Being with Hermione and Ron is infinitely better now that they have stopped their latest inquisition. Harry had spent a good hour with his two best friends by the lake, simply catching up with them and enjoying the lack of questions regarding his mystery girlfriend. Not that Harry minds very much, but it isn’t often that all three of them are able to hang out so freely like that. Harry had eventually left them, of course, insisting that he let the couple have their own alone time before curfew. Ron had given him a grateful smile, which Hermione only mirrored once she was sure Harry was absolutely okay with it.

His is still floating on happiness at the spontaneous hang out when he makes his way back to the common room. Hanging out with Ron and Hermione aside, Harry is still immensely pleased with what had happened earlier on in the day. After their romp in the library, Malfoy had kept true to his word and attended Transfigurations class in the same state as he had been in the library, panties sticky and wet and hole full of Harry’s spunk. Even after Malfoy had cast basic freshening charms on himself, he remained unbearably red for the entirety of the class hour, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as Harry watched on with delight. Harry decides that it may not have been the nicest thing to have asked for, but damn if it it wasn’t hot. After all, Malfoy didn’t have to agree to it.

When he reaches the common room, he’s surprised to see that it isn’t empty as it usually is at this hour. Lavender and Parvati are sat on one of the couches, hunched in towards each other and exchanging whispers and giggles. On the farthest wall sits Goldstein at one of the tables, a half-played chess game open before him but no opponent. The blond gives Harry a measured look, tilting his head curiously. Harry gives him a carefully blank look before spotting another figure in the room.

Sitting on the floor by an unoccupied couch is Malfoy, running a finger over his bottom lip as his eyes rake over the book in his lap. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy is dressed in pyjamas. Simple and plain pyjamas in the unassuming colour of pale blue, which look rather nice when paired with his skin colour. The sight is a bit jarring to Harry, who has gotten so used to seeing Malfoy in a skirt. The young man looks much younger like that, blond locks falling freely, the tips sweeping over the cut of his cheekbone.

Harry looks back up to give Goldstein a defiant glare, mentally giving the former Ravenclaw a two-fingered salute. Goldstein purses his lips, clearly unamused, but returns his focus to his single player chess game. A part of Harry worries at the possibility of Goldstein saying something about what he had seen in the library. As arousing as being caught had been, even Harry can admit the mortifying nature of being caught with his prick up another bloke’s arse. And not just any bloke, but Draco Malfoy. Harry figures it’s actually a testament to Goldstein’s will that he hadn’t gone yelling for the hills at the sight of two supposed rivals shagging in the library.

Malfoy still hasn’t looked up from his reading, not even when Harry pops down to take a seat beside him. “Hi,” Harry says simply.

Malfoy glances up at him then, looking bewildered by his presence. He then sweeps a gaze around the common room, looking for Merlin knows what, before landing on Goldstein. Malfoy flushes, cheeks going pink even as Goldstein pointedly ignores them. Harry is convinced that Malfoy is going to shoo him away now that he knows Goldstein is just over there, except he doesn’t.

Instead, Malfoy merely mumbles out a, “Hello, Potter.” He then returns to his book and his distracting habit of feeling up his lip.

When Malfoy makes no sign of continuing the conversation, Harry just stares. And stares, and stares because Merlin and Circe, Malfoy is  _ handsome _ . Harry knows that already, though, and has been forcibly reminded of it for the past three days now. It’s unbelievable how he has never actively thought of it in the past, but he figures that he must have noticed in some capacity over the years. It’s impossible for anyone to completely ignore how attractive Malfoy is, even Harry now, apparently. There is just something so alluring in the pout of his lips and the curve of his very pointy nose. At one point Harry had found such features so haughty and aristocratic, but now he’s entranced, unable to look away.

Malfoy shifts in his seat before raising his head to meet Harry’s stare. He gives Harry a pinched look, eyes narrowing as he asks, “Do you need anything or are you just going to stare loudly the entire time?”

Unable to stop himself, Harry laughs, remembering when Malfoy had first said such similar words to him. It seems Malfoy remembers as well, as his cheeks flush again at the memory. Harry knows what he’s thinking.  _ The last time you said those words, we fucked _ , Harry taunts in his head.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies thoughtfully, “you’re a pretty sight to look at.”

A strangled wheeze escapes Malfoy and he quickly tries to compose himself. “Merlin, Potter, you cannot just say things like that.”

Harry laughs again, this time at Malfoy’s flustered nature. He has learned now how simple of a task it is to rile the other man up. It’s nice, having the tables turned on Malfoy, who had always been such an expert at getting under Harry’s skin so easily. Frankly, Harry has no idea what he’s here for, only that he wants to talk to Malfoy. His gaze drops to the book in Malfoy’s lap, recognizing the Transfigurations textbook.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could help me on the Transfigurations homework,” Harry lies.

Malfoy squints at him and Harry wonders how the other man is even able to still see at this point. “This better not be some backhanded attempt at another  _ reward _ .”

This time, it is Harry who blushes, face warming at Malfoy’s usage of the word. A part of his mind, that sounds suspiciously like Hermione, admonishes that he ought to feel ashamed for having cajoled Malfoy into such lewd acts during what was meant to be a simple study date. And yet he isn’t, not at all, as he clearly remembers Malfoy being a  _ very _ active participant himself. Besides, it was Malfoy who had decided to put on that pink thong today, knowing full well that Harry would be seeing them.

“I think the reward from earlier was satisfactory enough,” Harry answers simply.

“Satisfactory—” Malfoy breaks off in an indignant squawk. He continues on, hissing, “I sat through an entire bloody class and dinner with your come in my arse. That is much more than satisfactory.”

_ Oh _ . Harry had not known that Malfoy had kept it through dinner. Against his will, he pictures Malfoy sitting in the Great Hall, still sticky and likely itchy from the mix of fluids on and in him. And he had just sat there, eating his dinner and attempting to act normally as if lube and come hadn’t been trailing out of his arse at that very second. Parkinson would have been incensed if she ever knew.

Harry rubs at his neck. “You didn’t have to, you know,” he points out to Malfoy. He says it as nonchalantly as he possibly can, but he hopes his message is conveyed. All Malfoy has to do is say the word and Harry will back off.

“I know that,” Malfoy mumbles in reply. He looks away from Harry then, cheeks tinting darker and eyes dutifully trained on the plush carpet beneath him. A stray, pale hand plucks at the rug’s blend, tugging lightly.

Even though Malfoy cannot see it, Harry smiles at him. “So will you please help me with my homework since I’ve clearly unlocked a wonderful kink for you?” he requests.

“There is no—no unlocking, thank you very much,” Malfoy replies hotly, still avoiding Harry’s gaze. “Just you and your very depraved mind.”

Harry doesn’t bother to point out that it was Malfoy’s choice to extend it to dinner time.

“So,” Malfoy sniffs, “what did you need help on specifically?”

Harry comes up with a load of bollocks, asking about the mass exchange rate of transfiguration spells and such. Malfoy gives him a very unimpressed look once he finally takes his eyes off of the carpet, unamused by Harry’s seeming lack of knowledge in the most basic of magical principles. He supposes he should be offended that Malfoy believes him to be so incompetent that even such a simple concept could have him stumped, but any hurt feelings doesn’t compare to the sight of Malfoy in his element. There is something to be said about the way Malfoy’s eyes sparkle, twinkling like diamonds in a most cliche way, turning the grey into a bright silver as he explains things to Harry.

After a good five minutes of rambling, however, Malfoy falters and glances suspiciously at Harry’s empty hands. “Wait, where is your homework?”

“Upstairs in my dorm, finished,” Harry answers honestly, grinning at Malfoy’s puzzlement.

“Then why would you—? Oh, you wily thing,” Malfoy finishes in a mumble of understanding. “Then why are you really here?”

Harry shrugs and proceeds to lean back against the couch behind them, attempting an affectation of casualness. “Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh. I see,” Malfoy says under his breath, not at all seeing what Harry means by that. The blond man busies himself with his book again until Harry clears his throat.

“Usually, this is the part where you ask what I want to talk about,” Harry points out.

Malfoy huffs a laugh at that. “Oh, are you lecturing me on how to be a proper conversationalist now?”

“If I need to,” Harry returns.

Malfoy snorts then, a loud and sharp noise that resounds in the current quiet of the common room. He immediately raises his hand to cover his mouth in embarrassment, cheeks pinking as usual in what Harry is sure to believe as a now ever-present blush. It strikes Harry once again of how different Malfoy is now, sitting with Harry for more than five minutes and not hexing him, instead laughing at his jokes.

“What do you want to talk about then?” Malfoy questions once he’s recovered.

“Anything,” Harry answers, vaguely. He waves a hand in an aborted motion before bringing it back down. “But you, mostly.”

Malfoy shakes his head at that, disbelieving. “Right. The Golden Boy wants to know about me.”

Harry throws him a teasing smile. “It’s only proper, since I’ve ravished you three times now.”

Malfoy shoves at him then, jabbing a pointy elbow into his side. “Oh, shut it!”

“Lav and Parvati are gone,” Harry points out, gesturing absently to the now unoccupied couch. “And from what I remember, Goldstein already knows.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Malfoy bemoans. In a most dramatic fashion, he buries his face in his hands, reliving the moment Goldstein had traipsed into their section of the library and cheekily commented on their activities.

The book in his lap shifts a little, and Harry’s eyes catch onto a piece of parchment tucked away into one of the earlier chapters of the book. Curious, Harry tugs it out in Malfoy’s moment of distraction, eyes widening when he recognizes the marks on the parchment to be drawings. They’re beautiful—lovely little sketches of birds in various colours of ink. Harry traces the lines, captivated by the slope of one bird’s wings. His favourite sketch sits in the middle: a bird taking flight.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” Harry murmurs, voice soft as he continues to feel along the parchment.

Malfoy pulls his head out of his hands then, looking on as Harry marvels at the drawings. In a swift motion, Malfoy snatches the drawings away, clutching the parchment to his chest with shaky hands.

“They’re the only things I can draw, actually,” he admits, voice sounding small and sheepish. He sets the parchment down onto his book and smooths it out, attempting to fix the wrinkles he had caused in his quick actions.

For a moment, neither of them speak. Malfoy keeps moving his hands over the sheet, even when it is evident that not much can be done for the creases. The blond’s hands are elegant, just like every other part of him, and Harry finds himself a tad bit fascinated by the bony nature of them. Slim fingers brush against the parchment in a repeated motion, petting the paper with tender care. Malfoy’s face is scrunched up in concentration, eyes focused intensely in his task. Dimly, Harry notices that Malfoy’s skin is not actually as perfectly unblemished as he had thought it to be. A freckle, small and umber in colour, rests on the lower part of his jaw on his left side, the one Harry is facing. Harry feels a compulsion to press a kiss to the mark.

“My mother taught me,” Malfoy speaks suddenly in the silence, voice slightly tremulous as he finally still his hands. “I know it wouldn’t seem likely, knowing what kind of woman she is, but she actually has a bit of a creative side. It’s why she always enjoyed planning any social engagements at the manor.”

It isn’t exactly fair, but Harry finds himself slightly envious of that. He had no mother, or parents in general, to have passed on any skills. Not that he even knows what sort of special skills Lily and James could even teach him—Sirius and Remus never had the chance to tell him even that.

Harry nods and leans closer against his own volition. “Did she teach you when you were young?”

Malfoy nods. He lifts his eyes to meet Harry’s own, lashes fluttering in the dim candlelight. “She used to paint every Sunday in the solarium. She claims she liked the good lighting,” he explains. He trails off then, licking his lips and wetting the pink flesh there. Harry’s gaze dips down to catch the motion before flicking back up to Malfoy’s grey eyes. “She hasn’t painted in a while.”

They’re much closer now, faces merely an inch away. Harry can see everything with startling clarity now. Malfoy’s lashes, surprisingly dark in comparison to the rest of his colouring, are long and brush against the tops of his cheeks when he blinks. There are more marks on his nose, a very light dusting of honeyed freckles sporadically spread along the bridge of his nose. His lips remain pink and full, never chapped. His cheeks still have a faint hue to them, steadily darkening into a scarlet tint at Harry’s increasing proximity.

Harry lets out a shaky breath. “How is your mum these days?”

“She’s doing… well.” Malfoy swallows, throat moving. “As well as any woman would be doing with her son away at school and her husband locked up in Azkaban.”

“Well, the latter can’t really be helped, unfortunately,” Harry replies mindlessly.

Malfoy frowns then, his head rearing back just before their noses touch. “I thought you smarter than to say anything about my father,” he says, voice just a touch cold.

“But it’s true. He’s the one who got you guys into that whole mess during the war,” Harry argues, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance now.

“Don’t pretend to understand what my family went through,” Malfoy bites out. Harry sees Malfoy’s jaw clench in an effort to contain his anger, and Harry realizes that he has struck a nerve.

Harry hastily attempts to apologize. “Darling, I—”

“Don’t use that on me!” Malfoy’s eyes flash angrily at Harry before he gets up from his spot in a swift movement. “Good night, Potter.”

Harry watches on, unable to conjure any words as Malfoy stalks away from him and towards the boy’s dormitories, stomping the entire way up. Goldstein, still sat at his table, gives Harry an inquisitive look that he ignores.

“Well, fuck,” Harry grumbles, “so much for a good night.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three things: 1. yes, goldstein keeps his promise 2. hooray for harry, hermione and ron are finally off his back. sort of. 3. bully for harry now, things had just been going so smoothly.
> 
> anyways thank you guys again for all the wonderful comments, and i hope you guys enjoyed


	4. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there! wow, i cant believe this but we’re already halfway there from the end of this story. thank you again SO MUCH to everyone who commented last chapter (as well as the previous ones!). once again, that really really amps up my motivation and drive to write so thank you! also, this story hit 500 kudos the other week which WOW what a milestone for me, thank you guys so much.
> 
> when it comes to this fic, i really try to keep to a (loose) schedule of updating every two weeks. i slipped up a bit this time since ive been so busy with life stuff and will continue to be busy since im starting college pretty soon but i will do my utmost best to continue delivering a new chapter every two weeks! im really excited to finish this and move onto other fics that have been demanding my attention haha
> 
> anyways, once again this chapter got way out of hand. enjoy!

On Thursday morning, it is announced that the cooling charms of the castle have been fixed and the recent heatwave is beginning to let up, officially putting an end to the much loathed quidditch ban. Everyone is beyond elated with the news, the usual cheery atmosphere of the castle taking place during breakfast once again. The Great Hall echoes with the delighted chatter and conversations of the students, all relieved to finally be relinquished of the unbearable temperature. It is a stark difference from the previous few days of glum mumbling that had been occuring. Even if it means having to give up their free periods from outdoor classes, everyone is completely ecstatic.   
  
Everyone except for Harry Potter.   
  
Harry stabs his fork into his syrup drowned pancakes with more force than needed, nearly splitting the plate in half from his strength. He belatedly realizes that he hasn’t even cut his pancakes yet and had just stabbed a great dent into it for no reason. A groan of annoyance slips out as he mentally berates himself for his stupidity.  _ Idiot _ , he thinks,  _ can’t even eat pancakes right. Can’t even say things right. _ The drenched pancakes stare back up at him, mocking him with its soaked nature. With a sigh, he begins cutting.   
  
To say Harry is upset is a tragic understatement. He is incensed. Livid. Enraged. All because Draco sodding Malfoy won’t look at him. In fact, the blond hasn’t looked at him once since last night. Not once. Not even when they bumped into each other outside the boy’s showers or when Harry had tripped over his robe on the way downstairs from the boy’s dormitories. There have been no small sneaking glances or even a glare of hatred. Absolutely no response from the other man. It is as if nothing had ever happened, both the fight and their previous days of shagging each other silly. Harry is back to square one with the git, the Malfoy that has existed for most of eighth year.   
  
To make matters worse, Malfoy isn’t ignoring him in sullen silence. He looks happy, actually, joking and laughing with his friends in a much less muted way than usual. It is almost as if he is doing it on purpose. Parkinson certainly looks overjoyed as she leans in close to Malfoy, wine coloured lips spread wide into a grin as Malfoy says something Harry cannot hear over the raucous sounds of merry students.   
  
After a few more minutes of Harry’s indecipherable grumbling, Ron snaps. “What the bloody hell has you in a strop today?”   
  
Harry shoves a large bite of pancakes into his mouth harshly, wincing when the poked ends of the fork graze his gums. “Doing just fine, thanks.”   
  
Hermione and Ron exchange wide eyed looks that make Harry want to throttle them both. Curse them and their now innate ability to communicate silently through looks purely. It would be damn adorable if Harry weren’t so peeved by it right now.   
  
“Did something happen with,” Hermione pauses to clear her throat emphatically, “... _ you know? _ ”   
  
“No, I don’t know, seeing as I haven’t sprung up the wonderful ability of telepathy yet.”   
  
“You know what she means,” Ron growls out. He leans closer, purposefully lowering his voice. “Her, the mystery girlfriend.”   
  
Fierce irritation rattles through Harry’s body at how dead on the nose his best friends are. Malfoy is the farthest thing from a girlfriend—and a slight turn left from boyfriend, Harry’s mind supplies—and yet he’s the closest thing to fitting Hermione and Ron’s ridiculous descriptor of a  _ mystery girlfriend _ . Because yes, quite frankly, this has everything to do with Harry’s mystery shag. It also has all to do with Harry’s stupid, filter-lacking mouth and Malfoy’s stupid father.   
  
Instead of answering just that, Harry grumbles, “I thought you two were done with all that bollocks.” He pauses in piercing another bite of pancakes. “And I’m not in a strop!”   
  
Hermione eyes him warily for a moment before saying in a careful tone, “Of course. He’s fine, Ron.”   
  
“Right,” Ron hums. He focuses on his own food after another pointed look from Hermione. Silence descends on them for another few minutes until Ron throws his utensils down with a loud clang.    
  
Harry gives him a bewildered look, fighting to keep his growing exasperation at bay. It’s already enough that everyone else around him is making an inordinate amount of noise, he doesn’t need Ron to add to that. Ron doesn’t notice, however, and gasps in a dramatic fashion.   
  
“I forgot to tell you guys!” Ron exclaims, fingers snapping rapidly to get both Harry and Hermione’s attention. “Seamus told me that two students were overheard shagging in the library yesterday!”   
  
Harry nearly tosses his fork across the room. “What?”   
  
Ron nods, laughing heartily now, slapping his hand onto the table with exuberance. Hermione, on the other hand, looks sickened by the very thought. “That is entirely inappropriate,” Hermione lectures, unaware that one of the culprits is sitting right across from her with a gobsmacked expression. “Why anyone would do that in the library of all places is—it is beyond me!”   
  
Harry winces at the sharp crack of her tone, unable to ignore the guilt that settles in his stomach. Trust Hermione to be offended by the act of desecrating the library, as though other students haven’t gone for a snog in some of the back sections before. Harry chooses to ignore that he and Malfoy had done much more than simple snogging.   
  
“Oh yeah, I heard the bird was especially loud,” Ron wheezes. He slaps his knee now instead, giving mercy to the abused wood of the table. “Asking to be—to be—“ He breaks off into another fit of laughter and Harry thinks Ron may very well choke. “Asking to be split open!”   
  
“Ron! Don’t be crude!” Hermione cries out. She gives him a stern look, even more stern than the one she had already been giving him, but he only laughs louder. Two fingers move to rub at her left temple, a sign of her having given up on trying to quiet her boyfriend.   
  
Mortification roils through Harry. His face feels on fire now as he remembers all of the dirty things that Malfoy had said to him while Harry continued to pound away into him. Of course someone had heard them, neither of them had tried very hard to keep quiet. And now his own best friends know about it and— _ wait, had Ron said a bird? _   
  
“Did anyone see them?” Harry questions suddenly.   
  
Ron shakes his head, shoulders still trembling with mirth. “No, and no one’s admitted to it either.”   
  
Relief floods through Harry’s systems at those words. If no one had seen either of them, with the exception of Goldstein, they should be in the clear. After all, people seem to be assuming that the offending couple consists of a witch and a wizard, the perfect cover. Now, Harry only hopes that Malfoy doesn’t catch wind of the news. There is no telling how he might react to the news of them having been overheard.   
  
As if on cue, Seamus stands from his seat at the table and hollers out, “Oi! Who’s the lass that asked to be split open in the library yesterday?”   
  
Guffaws resound throughout the eighth year table, Ron included. Harry merely purses his lips in dismay before looking over at Malfoy, who is bright red and looking spectacularly close to exploding like a box of Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-bangs. From beside Malfoy, Zabini stifles a cackle behind his hand as Seamus goes on to poorly imitate the lewd sounds of the “lass from the library,” moaning in an overtly obscene way. It doesn’t surprise Harry at all when Malfoy shoots up to his feet and bolts from the table, no one noticing as they all remain enraptured by Seamus’ ostentatious performance.   
  
Harry doesn’t waste any time. He’s on his feet in seconds with a mumbled excuse to his friends, practically sprinting out of the Great Hall to chase after Malfoy. The last thing he hears is McGonagall telling Seamus to sit down or face detention before the heavy doors close from behind and silence surrounds him. Fifty or so paces ahead, Malfoy is still walking away in a brisk pace, skirt bouncing with each heavy step.   
  
Harry makes another run to catch up with him, heaving as he yells out, “Malfoy! Malfoy!”   
  
Malfoy’s steps cut off then, and he whips around with a crazed expression. His blush from earlier has barely faded, a deep pink that clings stubbornly to the skin of his cheeks and spreads down to his neck past the buttoned collar of his school shirt. His lips are glossed with a tint of red today, although Harry isn’t sure if the resulting colour is actually from a product or from Malfoy biting his lips. Malfoy looks furious, and yet Harry thinks he looks stunning.   
  
“What the fuck do you want, Potter?” Malfoy barks. Harry realizes belatedly that he had been staring.   
  
“I-I—” Harry tries to come up with a response. He really does not know why he came out here. Eventually, he answers, “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”   
  
“Oh, did you?” Malfoy queries, tone biting. “Well no, I’m not, thanks.”   
  
Harry shuffles his feet, gaze dropping to his scuffed shoes. “It was worth a shot…”   
  
Malfoy scoffs, the sound harsh and abrasive in the quietude. Harry glances back up and sees that Malfoy has his arms crossed tightly over his chest, grey eyes wide and fierce looking. “I thought it was humiliating enough to come back here despite my past,” Malfoy explains to him, voice rising with each word. “But nothing beats our entire year laughing at how I asked stupid Harry Potter to split my stupid arse open with his stupid prick!”   
  
_ My prick isn’t stupid _ , Harry thinks, outwardly wincing at the sharpness of Malfoy’s words. Malfoy had spoken so ruthlessly that spittle flew from his mouth in what should have been an extremely unattractive sight, but Harry still can’t get the idea of Malfoy looking stunning out of his mind, even if he is two steps from gutting Harry with the nearest object. Harry doesn’t really fancy being bludgeoned to death this morning by the mace hanging off of the suit of armor to his left.   
  
“No one actually knows,” Harry argues weakly. “Everyone assumes it’s some random bird—”   
  
“Oh, and having my bedroom noises compared to a witch is any better?”   
  
Harry wrinkles his nose. “They were library noises, actually.”   
  
“Stop joking!” Malfoy screams at him. His face has taken on a red hue again. “This isn’t funny! At all!”   
  
“Well, no one told you to be so damn loud now, did they?” Harry counters, not stopping even after he sees the affronted expression on Malfoy’s face. “It’s not my fault you wail like a banshee when getting buggered!”   
  
It would have been comical how Malfoy’s face turns positively crimson after that, except his expression is thunderous now, and he looks very close to biting Harry’s head off. “Fuck you!” he cries out, voice shaking with indignation. “I’m still mad at you for yesterday!”   
  
That hits Harry in the gut, and he shrinks in on himself slightly. “I’m sorry about that, okay? I didn’t know—”   
  
“You’re absolutely right, you didn’t!” Malfoy squawks. He jabs a pale, bony finger at Harry, not touching but close enough that Harry’s chest tingles with the potential of them meeting. “You still don’t know. You can’t claim to know how I feel about it.”   
  
Harry doesn’t get the chance to respond. The telltale creaks and groans of the Great Hall doors opening sounds from behind him, and he turns to see a horde of students just beginning to leave breakfast and head for classes. He can see Hermione and Ron among the throng, looking confused as they whip their heads around in search of Harry. Harry turns back to address Malfoy again, only to find that the blond man is gone.   
  
Classes go by like a blur after their encounter. He is sure both Ron and Hermione have scolded him for his inattention seven times by the time they reach fourth period. It doesn’t help that Malfoy sits near him in all of his classes, even the ones where they are able to choose their seats. Malfoy is always there, just out of reach, taunting with his short skirt and smiles that are most definitely not directed towards Harry.   
  
It is so fucking infuriating how good he looks despite how annoyed Harry is.   
  
He isn’t sure what he had expected of Malfoy today, but this bright and cheery disposition was unanticipated. Malfoy looks radiant as he makes conversation with Parkinson and Zabini throughout the day, blond hair shiny and pale eyes bright as ever. Maybe Harry had just been hoping that Malfoy would be in as foul of a mood as he currently is in. Malfoy had always made it clear in the past when Harry had done something to anger him. Yet another testament to how much Malfoy had changed, although Harry isn’t enjoying this difference quite as much as the others.   
  
There is also the unprecedented feeling of absolute shittiness that Harry feels overwhelmed with. In all his life, he could never have expected himself to sympathize with Lucius Malfoy. The truth of the matter is that Harry does not like Lucius Malfoy, in fact, one may even go as far as to say that Harry hates the man. Lucius Malfoy is the Death Eater who had repeatedly tried to have Harry killed, which doesn’t even begin to account for the people who had actually died from his efforts.   
  
Except, despite how much Harry loathes the man, Lucius is still Malfoy’s father. While a Death Eater, it doesn’t reflect how he might have been as a parent. Despite the endangerment he had put his family in when swearing allegiance to Voldemort, Harry feels as though he can safely say that Lucius Malfoy loves his family. He had believed himself to be on the winning side, after all. Harry remembers his own anger at Snape’s derisive words towards his father.   
  
That thought only solidifies Harry’s already present guilt. Harry’s father is by no means comparable to that of a blood purist like Lucius Malfoy, of course, but Harry thinks he can relate to Malfoy’s anger in that sense.   
  
Harry looks up from his blank set of notes, once again ignoring the drone of Binns’ voice, to look over at Malfoy. This is the first class Harry has not seen him chatting with his friends, instead studiously focusing on his own notes. It isn’t very shocking that Malfoy is one of the few students to actually pay attention during History of Magic. Even Padma, who has always been the studious type, looks as though she is fighting to stay awake.   
  
Harry leans forward in his seat, trying to get a better view of Malfoy, only stopping when he tips far enough to likely topple over and into the row below him. Malfoy is indeed writing notes, his neat, sloping penmanship filling the page with a detailed account on the Merkingdom Coalition of 1043. However, tucked away in the bottom corner of the page, unobscured by Malfoy’s writing hand, is a half-finished sketch of a pretty little bird. He adds to the drawing each time he finishes two lines of notes, dipping his quill into his inkwell and resuming the drawing. The ink strokes are quick and sweeping, evidence of how easily this comes to him. Harry recognizes the bird as a swallow in flight, having seen it on the cover of one of Hermione’s books.   
  
Warmth fills Harry’s chest at the sight. The little habit is endearing, for a lack of words, and Harry wonders what else Malfoy could be able to draw under proper tutelage. He clearly has a hand for it, as well as a knack for ingenuity in general. Harry remembers how he had fixed the Vanishing Cabinet in sixth year on his own.   
  
On Harry’s right, Ron shifts in his sleep, muttering nonsense, and only then does Harry finally settle back down into his seat for the rest of class. Despite his brief delight at seeing Malfoy drawing in action, Harry’s general morose temper does not let up, not even when lunch rolls around. Hermione and Ron have begun to get antsy with Harry’s behaviour, their shared looks increasing with each dramatic sigh that escapes Harry’s lips as he continues to pick at his sandwich with disinterest.   
  
Ron’s eyes are glued to Harry’s barely eaten plate of food, lips pursed. “Seriously, mate, are you okay?” His eyes are wide as they follow the movement of Harry’s hand retracting from the sandwich. “We’re really worried about you.”   
  
“It’s fine, I’m fine.” Harry pouts at his food glumly, desperately wishing it were Malfoy sitting before him instead.   
  
_ Now that is a nice thought _ , he muses. Malfoy sitting on the eighth year table, long legs splayed out on either side of Harry and showcasing his choice of knickers for the day. Harry imagines the pink thong from yesterday. The thought vanishes when he remembers that Malfoy is very much still upset with him and he is likely to be stuck with his hand for the rest of his life, living solely off of his memories of Malfoy. Harry’s growing erection fades pretty quickly after that.   
  
_ Brilliant _ , Harry thinks,  _ now my prick is in a bad mood too. _   
  
Hermione lets out a loud, nasally sigh. “Harry James Potter, you are not fine!” she decrees, slamming her palm down onto the table. “Now tell us what is going on before we take you to Madam Pomfrey.”   
  
Harry sighs, eyes traveling against his will to where Malfoy sits. It is customary for him now, and yet he still cannot relinquish the seizing in his chest at the sight of Malfoy looking perfectly fine. He leans against Pansy, grinning smugly as she pets his head. Envy roars through his veins at the gesture, knowing his jealousy is severely misplaced considering he knows that neither is even capable of being attracted to each other. Even with the knowledge, however, Harry still has a ridiculous urge to push Parkinson off of him and run his own hands through Malfoy’s silky hair.   
  
Harry tears his gaze away with great difficulty. “Fine,” Harry sighs, “It is about,  _ you know. _ ”   
  
“Oh!” Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead, not having expected Harry’s honesty. “Oh, I see.”   
  
“So, what is it with her?” Ron asks, leaning across the table now.   
  
Harry grimaces at the question. How he has managed to avoid this conversation after so many years of knowing about his bisexuality is a mystery to him. Although, he supposes some excuses could be made on account of him having to defeat a mad dark lord for a good portion of those years. Hermione and Ron are his best friends and they’ve been through everything with him, even when their own lives had been at stake. If that isn’t the greatest proof of their unwavering loyalty to him, he isn’t sure what else could prove it.   
  
Nevertheless, nothing compares to the innate fear one feels when fully exposing himself. Such fear is absurd when considering the fact that Hermione and Ron know nearly everything—sexuality and strange alliance with Malfoy aside—about him. And he knows that the wizarding world doesn’t hold the same prejudices as Muggles do and yet… There is no denying the fear in Harry’s stomach as he turns the decision over in his mind. He has to tell them, he decides. If it isn’t now, it will come someday, he knows.   
  
Harry wipes his sweaty palms against the smooth material of his trousers. “Er, actually. She’s um, she is a he.”   
  
For a moment, neither Hermione or Ron say anything. Harry looks between them, holding his breath as he sees the information enter their brains to be processed. Waiting is pure torture and he feels that this must be the closest anyone can feel to having a heart attack without actually having one.   
  
“Wait…” Ron speaks first, forehead wrinkled. “You’re gay?”   
  
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Hermione quickly rambles out. She shoots Ron a pointed look, jabbing him slightly in his side.   
  
“Oh, yeah!” Ron reassures. He looks apologetic as he continues, voice much lower, “No, nothing wrong. Um, it’s just, well—Ginny?”   
  
“Uh, yeah, I’m bisexual,” Harry lets out in a rush, sounding near breathless. “Known it since maybe fourth year.”   
  
Hermione smiles then, kindness evident in her eyes as she reaches out across the table to put a hand on one of Harry’s own. “Harry… Thank you for telling us. You know we’ll always love you no matter what.”   
  
Ron nods, grinning at Harry. “Exactly. Right on, love who you love, you know.”   
  
Relief bubbles up in Harry, exiting his body in the form of laughter as he doubles over in his seat. In seconds, Hermione and Ron are joining him as well, the trio’s giggles blending in with the surrounding loudness of the Great Hall. He realizes, belatedly, that it is the first time he has laughed all day. As he sobers up, he looks on at his best friends, still lost in snorts and snickering, and he feels almost guilty for thinking he couldn’t have trusted them with such a big secret. They have always been fate’s answer to his years of tragedy, respite to the almost unending bad luck that has followed him since childbirth.

“Thank you,” he tells them once they’ve calmed down. He hopes his voice conveys all of his gratitude. “I love you guys too.”   
  
“Seriously, though, we’re here for you.” Ron pauses then, a frown forming on his face. In seconds, he turns red as a tomato, face ruddy as he struggles to get his next words out. “Wait… um… then that means… knickers?”   
  
“Belongs to the other bloke!” Harry rushes to confirm Ron’s mounting suspicions. Ron lets out a noise akin to that of a balloon being deflated, but his face has not lost its scarlet hue yet. Mortification at having just admitted what he had wriggles its way into Harry’s chest, digging into his sternum. “Can that be a conversation for another time?”   
  
Ron opens his mouth, likely to disagree as Harry can see how much the man wants to know, but Hermione speaks up before him. “So what happened then with, well, him?”   
  
Right, Malfoy is still mad at Harry. One would think he would be used to the feeling by now.   
  
“It’s er, complicated,” Harry confesses. “Very, very complicated. I said something insensitive and he’s pretty upset.”   
  
It also must not have helped that Harry had mocked Malfoy for his bedroom noises this morning, as the blond had put it. He does not tell Hermione and Ron this little tidbit.   
  
Ron clears his throat into a tightened fist. “As an expert in that field, it really matters how you apologize. Be really sincere and honest with him. Make sure you hit the real reason he’s upset.”   
  
“Very well said,” Hermione compliments. “Rather brilliant, actually.” She beams at Ron, pride evident on her face. The ginger continues to blush, although Harry has a suspicion that it is no longer from the knickers debacle.   
  
“And if he won’t even talk to me?” Harry speaks up, drawing their attention back to the issue at hand.   
  
“You could write a letter?” Hermione offers.   
  
A letter? Harry tries to imagine handing over an enveloped letter to Malfoy like some blushing schoolgirl confessing to her crush of the week. Malfoy would surely laugh in his face, but only before taking Harry’s letter and ripping it to pieces if he doesn’t  _ incendio _ it on sight. Or worse, Malfoy will actually read the letter, probably aloud and mockingly with Parkinson laughing right next to him. Horrible scenarios aside, Harry tries to ignore the rather girly implications of writing a letter like some old Victorian lord contacting the object of his affections.   
  
Harry keeps his primary worries to himself and arches an eyebrow at her. “I thought we just established that he’s not a girl, Hermione.”   
  
“It’s not just girls that appreciate a heartfelt letter! He’ll appreciate it just as much as anyone would do with a meaningful apology,” Hermione reasons with exasperation. Harry flinches, suddenly grateful for the abundance of sound around them. Of all the times and places he could have chosen to come out…   
  
“And if being sincere doesn’t work,” Ron cuts in, “sex can fix any issue. Tried and true method to get any guy back on.”   
  
“Ron!” Hermione shrieks and Ron gives her a cheeky grin in response. Harry tries not to imagine why Ron is so sure of that opinion.   
  
“Right, time to pour my heart out to the world’s biggest plonker,” Harry mumbles, his words lost among the growing squabble between Hermione and Ron. They barely notice as he slips out of the Great Hall and heads towards the library to make his next move.

For as much as Malfoy has changed, Harry can safely surmise that the git is still very much the stubborn bastard he’s always been. Which is exactly why this plan needs to be perfect. He can write a letter, anyone with the basic skill of writing and the proper utensils can. This letter has to be incredible and groundbreaking, sympathetic enough but not too much that Malfoy would gag on its sap. It has to be the perfect balance of sincerity and teasing, but not too much teasing as he isn’t quite sure where he stands with Malfoy.

Plagued with thoughts of concocting the perfect letter, Harry’s quill meets the parchment and simply stays there, stuck to the paper and dripping perfectly good ink onto the blank sheet. Every time Harry tries to think of a way to start it off, he pictures Malfoy reading the opening line and tossing the letter aside like a piece of rubbish. There is no such thing as the perfect letter for Malfoy, Harry concludes, sullenly packing away his writing utensils and tucking away the now ruined piece of parchment. There would be no grand speeches of being terribly sorry for not having a better filter on his mouth, or attempting to corner Malfoy in the common room. Not if Harry can’t even write simple words onto a piece of parchment.

By the time lunch is over, Harry has nothing, not a single word of apology. Madam Pince gives him a pitiful look as he trudges out of the library and towards his next class. Hermione and Ron are sure to ask him if he has come up with anything in the meantime, and Harry is sure to feel even more pathetic when he admits the truth.

Harry pauses on his way up the steps, leaning heavily against the railing as the stairs begin to move itself into a different position. Never in Harry’s life would he have ever imagined himself mulling over how to apologize to Draco Malfoy. He thinks he’d put even that behind shagging the bloke, as he cannot help but admit that Malfoy is much more attractive in appearance than personality. And yet Harry still feels terrible for not having any sort of apology written by the time he reaches the Charms classroom.

Harry is surprised to see that he is the last to arrive to class, although it may have to do with his extended stay on the stairs earlier. Flitwick gives him a look of disapproval, but instead of scolding, merely motions for him to take a seat. Harry’s eyes scan the room and he sees that Ron and Hermione are already sitting together, casting him apologetic stares when Harry notices that no seats nearby them are available. Instead, the only remaining seat is in the very back of the classroom in the middle aisle, and Harry’s eyes widen when he recognizes the very familiar glint of blond hair.

Flitwick doesn’t wait for Harry to take his seat, immediately launching into his lecture for the day. Harry makes quick strides to the back of the classroom, buzzing with energy at the prospect of sitting next to Malfoy for the entire class period. He doesn’t have a letter, yes, but he does have the benefit of Malfoy sitting beside him for an entire period of class, unable to get away from Harry.

When he takes his seat, Malfoy barely moves. He has the decency to give a grunt of acknowledgment, which Harry considers a point in his favour. Malfoy’s gaze is trained purely on the board, however, his focus on Flitwick rather than Harry. Parkinson, who sits two desks ahead of them, is looking back at them with an anxious expression, teeth worrying her lip. Harry raises an eyebrow at her, questioning, and she frowns before turning up her nose and turning back around in her seat. If Malfoy had noticed their little showdown, he makes no mention of it.

Several minutes pass and it becomes increasingly evident to Harry that Malfoy will not be making any move to speak to him. Getting antsy, Harry tears off the bottom half of his barely written notes, and scribbles out an  _ I’m sorry _ before shoving it towards Malfoy. The blond barely gives it a glance, eyes looking down his pointed nose before he simply slides the parchment back to Harry’s side with a single finger.

Harry frowns when Malfoy looks back towards the front of the classroom. With a sigh, Harry spells away the ink on the parchment before writing a new line.  _ I’m sorry for being insensitive about your dad. I shouldn’t have said that, knowing how important he is to you. _ He passes over the strip of paper again, and this time, Malfoy actually bothers to tilt his head down and properly read it.

Then, much to Harry’s delight, Malfoy takes out his own wand to spell away the message and write down one of his own. Harry’s excitement deflates when he reads the following message:  _ You’re right. Now pay attention to class. _

Well, Harry thinks, it’s no forgiveness, but it’s a start. He tries to think of what else he might be able to write to evoke a reaction from Malfoy. The other man is like a statue at the moment, eyes zeroed in on Flitwick’s words as though they are the most riveting thing, and it stings a bit that even that is more interesting than anything Harry has to say.

In the next second, Malfoy lets out a small sigh, the puff of air from his lips causing his bangs to fly up for a moment. Mesmerized, Harry watches as the soft hair falls back into place, albeit a bit more disarrayed this time. Struck with inspiration, Harry resets the parchment and writes down his next thoughts.

_ I’m sorry, really, _ the paper reads when he hands it back to Malfoy,  _ and you look really handsome. _

Harry can tell he has made some sort of breakthrough when Malfoy’s cheeks pink at Harry’s compliment. And oh, how Harry had missed being able to put that sort of flush on Malfoy’s ivory skin. He completely forgoes the effort of pretending to listen to Flitwick, outright staring at Malfoy now as the blond erases the message and scratches down a response.

Malfoy doesn’t even have to pass it over, as Harry snatches it up the moment he finishes writing.  _ Flattery will get you nowhere, Potter. _ Harry grins and he knows that Malfoy’s stubborn demeanor is only for show. Malfoy looks on edge now, jaw tense and eyebrows drawn in an obvious effort to appear stern.

Harry figures that means he can push a bit further with his next note. When Malfoy receives the parchment again, his eyes widen and he slaps a hand over the paper, the sound echoing throughout the classroom. He gives their fellow classmates an apologetic glance when a few look back, before fully turning to look at Harry now, cheeks tinged red and eyes furious. Malfoy doesn’t even bother writing a response, tossing back the parchment that reads  _ And I’m sorry for making fun of the way you sound during sex, it’s actually really hot how much you beg for it. _

Despite the reaction, Harry counts it as a win, seeing as Malfoy hasn’t hexed off his bollocks yet. Although, as much as he enjoys teasing that pretty blush out of Malfoy, he still hasn’t been properly forgiven. But how? It isn’t even a matter of witch or wizard at this point, Harry knows now that it is because it’s Malfoy that makes it all so difficult. How could Harry ever prove that his apologies aren’t superficial?

His next idea is a complete shot in the dark. It isn’t something he would do for anyone else because of how strange it is, but Malfoy has never been anyone else. Putting all of his trust in his idea, Harry proceeds to map out his response, plotting the appropriate dots onto the paper. When he finishes, it looks like a jumble of black ink dots, and so he adds  _ connect the dots _ for good measure before handing it back to Malfoy.

Harry watches out of the corner of his eye as Malfoy proceeds to connect the dots with slight hesitation. The tip of his quill drags across the parchment from dot to dot, creating short scratching noises. When he finishes filling it out, he pulls back to look at the ugly bird that the image has created, and a smile finally forms on his face.

“Sorry, it’s not as pretty as your drawings are,” Harry says under his breath.

Malfoy turns towards him, smile still tugging at his lips. “Consider yourself half-forgiven. Also, your writing is shit.”

Harry wants to ask exactly what half-forgiven means, but he pauses when he feels a hand on his left thigh. Malfoy is no longer looking at him, skin deeply flushed and eyes trained on the board as he continues to write notes. The hand inches upwards slowly, the warmth of Malfoy’s palm seeping through the fabric of Harry’s trousers, getting dangerously close to Harry’s crotch.

Harry stiffens, muscles seizing up in equal parts fear and anticipation as Malfoy’s hand continues its path up his thigh, all the way until it finally rests on the zip of his trousers. The hand stops then, all movement stilling as Malfoy keeps his hand there. Blood rushes behind Harry’s ears, his eyes darting around the room frantically to make sure no one is paying attention to them. Flitwick continues on in his demonstration, unaware of the dirty placement of Malfoy’s hand at the moment.

Malfoy flicks a smug look at him, his red bottom lip caught between his teeth, and squeezes. Harry gasps sharply at the feeling of Malfoy’s hand closing over his clothed prick, eyes widening when a few students look back at him with confused stares. Harry plasters on a sheepish grin, which seems to be enough to sate the students’ curiosity. Once they’ve all turned back to the front of the classroom again, Harry catches onto Malfoy’s slender wrist.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Harry hisses.

Malfoy chews on his lip for a moment more. “It’s hard to keep quiet, isn’t it?” Malfoy whispers.

Malfoy doesn’t hesitate any further. His hand rubs meaningfully at Harry’s prick now, massaging the steadily growing bulge through the layers of Harry’s clothes. It feels good, so damn good and Harry hates how much he wants more than just this. He shoots Malfoy a pleading look then, squeezing his wrist gently before releasing him. Malfoy understands—Harry has given him full permission.

With a cat-like grin, Malfoy arranges lithe fingers over the fly of Harry’s trousers to quickly undo the zip, quill hand unfaltering as he deftly pulls Harry’s full length out. The cold air of the classroom envelopes the sensitive skin of his cock, matching Malfoy’s equally cold grip that slides Harry’s foreskin down to reveal the swollen head. From the board, Professor Flitwick turns to look directly at them as he speaks and Harry freezes, absolutely sure that his teacher can see his reddened cock in Malfoy’s pale hand, but Flitwick only continues on talking.

Malfoy pulls away then, letting Harry’s cock bob against his stomach, and a whine escapes Harry. The quill in Malfoy’s hand is set down, the hand that had been previously holding it rising to make a shushing gesture as he turns to face Harry directly again. With his right hand, Malfoy makes a show of licking his hand, dragging his tongue slowly against the flat of his palm in a vulgar display before reaching back down and squeezing Harry’s cock.

Harry jerks in his seat at the now slick sensation, stilling immediately after when he remembers where they are. But Merlin, the Triwizard Tournament had been easier than the feat of trying to stay still while Malfoy wanks him off in the middle of class. He has that wicked smile back on his face as he stares intently at Harry, moving his hand up and down his length in a languid motion. He takes his time in feeling up Harry’s shaft, the pads of his fingers rubbing against the veins embedded into his skin. When he reaches the glans of Harry’s cock, Malfoy stays there, squeezing the spongy head with little care and making Harry’s hips buck up in response.

The legs of Harry’s chair scrape against the stone floor, but Harry can barely hear the sound over the thudding of his heart. Malfoy picks up the pace now, properly moving as he pumps his fist up and down on Harry’s cock in a vice-like grip. Harry purses his lips tightly, determined not to make any noise as a moan threatens to escape him. Arousal flares in his groin, and he knows he’s embarrassingly close to finishing off.

He mentally slaps himself, reminding himself of how ridiculous an idea that is. He can’t get off here, not in the middle of class with the nearest student only two feet away. Except Malfoy is bloody good at giving a handjob, as Harry has come to realize when the blond dips the tip of his finger into the slit of his cock. Harry is torn between asking for more or stopping Malfoy entirely now, except he cannot deny how much more interesting this is from any boring old lecture.

Unable to keep his head up any longer, Harry lowers his head onto the desk, breathing hard against the wood and desperately trying to rid himself of the furious blush that has formed on his face. In this position, he can see Malfoy’s hand perfectly, his cock moving in and out of the tightened circle of Malfoy’s fist. Malfoy splays his fingers to cover more of Harry’s shaft, the elegant fingers that Harry had admired just the previous night working his cock with a dizzying pace.

Harry makes the mistake of looking back up at Malfoy, who is looking back at him with a dark hooded gaze, lips even redder now. Harry arches his back when Malfoy proceeds to rub ruthlessly at the spot just underneath the head of his cock, the spot that Harry has always found to be sensitive, and he marvels at how Malfoy could have known. There isn’t much more that Harry can take now, any semblance of control slipping from him steadily like a stream.

Malfoy leans over, then, brushing his glossed lips against the shell of Harry’s ear to whisper, “Come for me.”

And Harry does so, shoving his face into Malfoy’s shoulder and letting out a muffled groan into the fabric as his body convulses with the force of his orgasm. He barely registers the feel of Malfoy’s hand, still working him from under the table, as he continues to come. His hips are thrashing wildly now, and he makes no effort to quell his movements, a hand coming up to steady himself against Malfoy. It feels like ages before his orgasm dissipates, and Harry is left panting as though he had just run a marathon.

Harry’s body gives one final twitch, and he pulls back to see that Malfoy is still staring at him intently. Malfoy lifts his hand, the one coated in Harry’s milky release, and licks. Harry watches on, entranced, as Malfoy laps up the mess, fingers going in and out of his mouth. Harry feels as though he is close to losing his mind.

Malfoy’s throat bobs as he swallows the last of Harry’s spunk. “I, unlike you,” Malfoy purrs, “had the decency to cast a silencing spell as well as a notice-me-not charm.”

Harry jerks out of his stupor, head whipping around to realize that despite his loudness, not a single person in the class is looking their way. In fact, most everyone is busying themselves with the task of packing up for the next class. Harry turns back to Malfoy, who still has a sly smile on his face.

“I’m sorry about that, you know,” Harry tells him.

“I think you made that very clear in your notes.”

“That was a cruel punishment.”

Malfoy gives a pointed look towards Harry’s trousers which are still open. “Didn’t hear any complaints. Now, I suggest you put that away before I cancel the spells.”

Harry hurries to tuck himself away, barely making it in time before Malfoy casts a finite. He gives Malfoy a dirty look, to which Malfoy only laughs at, grey eyes lighting up in humour. When Harry looks back up, Hermione and Ron are standing by the door, clearly waiting for him to hurry up and join them for their next class. Harry glances back at Malfoy who is now standing and packing away his books before gesturing for his friends to go ahead. Ron looks skeptical, but Hermione merely nods and pulls Ron along and out of the classroom.

Once the last student has left and they are the only ones left in the classroom, Harry grabs Malfoy by the waist and sets him down onto the desk. Malfoy gasps when his bum makes contact with the rough wood, scowling when Harry pushes him back to lie down, head hanging off of the desk unsupported. 

“Potter!” Malfoy cries out, legs now flailing in the air and revealing his straining erection covered by skimpy, plum coloured knickers. “You utter oaf!”

Harry laughs when Malfoy tries to grab at him, easily pinning Malfoy’s arms down to the table, uncaring of the pieces of parchment that fall to the ground from their scuffling. In a swift motion, Harry leans down to capture Malfoy’s lips into a kiss. Malfoy slackens, movements abating as he melts into the kiss, mouth opening to grant Harry entrance. Harry moves a hand to cradle the back of Malfoy’s head, tilting him up for a better angle.

Malfoy’s spicy-sweet taste is sharp on his tongue, paired with a slight bitterness that delights Harry at the realization that it’s from his own come. Harry deepens the kiss, savouring the taste of himself when Malfoy’s tongue slides against his own hotly. Malfoy’s hands reach up to cup at Harry’s jaw lightly, mouth surging up for more. The product on Malfoy’s lips transfers onto Harry’s own, both of their lips turning somewhat sticky. It’s intoxicating how Malfoy kisses with all his body, and Harry feels as though he could do this forever until he feels Malfoy’s hardness pressing against his abdomen.

His lips slide down from Malfoy’s own, spreading the rouge along the lines of his jaw and throat. Malfoy moans when Harry nips at the skin of the base of his throat, pale hands fumbling to clutch onto Harry’s neck, urging him further. Harry obliges and opens his mouth to suck wetly at the spot. When he pulls back, Malfoy looks thoroughly marked in both love bites and his gloss.

“Potter, we really ought to get going,” Malfoy pants out. Harry is obsessed with how messy he looks right now. So unrefined and rumpled, hair in a tousled mess and mouth messy with cherry red product. “Our next class is only in a few minutes.”

“Then you’ll be good for me and be quick, right?” Harry grins at Malfoy’s look of confusion before sinking to his knees. From this height, all he can see is Malfoy’s cock, bulging out against the constraints of his knickers. Enthralled, Harry cannot help himself when he simply stares, taking in the sight.

“...Potter?”

At Malfoy’s unsure voice, Harry decides to take action. He leans in to mouth at Malfoy’s cock, wetting the material. Malfoy keens, voice filling the empty classroom as Harry feels the lace threading of the panties with his tongue. When Malfoy’s hips arch up against Harry’s mouth, Harry reaches up to tug the knickers down a bit, leaving them bunched up around the pale thighs still resting on the desk. Harry isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to look at this table again without thinking of how Malfoy’s bare arse had been on it.

With a tender sort of care, Harry presses a kiss to Malfoy’s thigh, taking his sweet time in nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. Malfoy’s body writhes from under him, hands gripping the edge of the desk tightly as his hips squirm in need. Harry completely ignores Malfoy’s cock, however, instead focusing on the dark love bite he leaves just where Malfoy’s thigh meets his groin. He lowers his mouth, taking Malfoy’s balls into his mouth and sucking.

“Please, please!” Malfoy wails, lithe body thrashing now. “My prick, Potter! Don’t be stupid!”

Harry hums around the weight of Malfoy’s balls in his mouth, and Malfoy lets out another sob. At that, Harry lifts his head to catch sight of Malfoy, who is glaring at him with intensity. His skin is ruddy all the way down to his neck, making the marks on his skin look like a complimentary art piece.

“Please what?” Harry teases. He runs a hand up and down Malfoy’s thigh, pausing to dig his thumb into the hickey he had left there earlier.

Malfoy cries out at the feeling, thighs clamping together reflexively, only to be stopped by Harry’s presence between his legs. “Suck my cock, damn it.”

“Oh?”

Harry glances down at Malfoy’s swollen prick, standing tall and slightly leaking at the head, the fluid dripping down and staining his skirt. Harry leans down and presses a kiss to the base, smiling when Malfoy shivers at the feeling. Harry continues his journey upwards, pressing another kiss to the middle of the shaft, then at the tip. Malfoy’s cock twitches against his lips as he continues to pepper chaste kisses onto the reddened head.

Then, without warning, Harry wraps his mouth around the glans, dragging the foreskin back with his lips. Malfoy screams, the sound ringing in Harry’s ears as he continues his descent down Malfoy’s length. No longer teasing, Harry bobs his head up and down on Malfoy, running his tongue back and forth against the underside of Malfoy’s cock. He makes sure to give proper attention to each bump, each vein his tongue can reach, stroking with his wet muscle. Harry draws in a deep breath before taking Malfoy in completely, nose making contact with the tangle of hair at the base of Malfoy’s cock. Malfoy moans when his cock hits the back of Harry’s throat, hands flying about before finding Harry’s hair and tugging hard.

Harry groans around Malfoy, inhaling sharply before pulling off. Malfoy’s cock is coated in saliva, shiny under the light. Malfoy’s head is hanging off of the desk, eyes scrunched tight as he bites his lips in a futile attempt to contain his sounds.

“Stand up,” Harry commands. He pats Malfoy’s thigh. “I want you to fuck my throat.”

Malfoy straightens up obediently, but he looks hesitant. “Are you sure?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Weren’t you the one rushing me earlier?”

A scowl graces Malfoy’s features, but he doesn’t argue any further. Instead, tentative fingers find their way to Harry’s hair, curling into the thickness before Malfoy presses his hips forward and enters Harry’s mouth again. Malfoy’s knees buckle slightly at the heat of Harry’s mouth and Harry grabs at his arse, gripping tightly to keep him upright. At first, Malfoy’s movements are slow and shy, his cock just barely skimming Harry’s tongue. Harry tightens his grip on Malfoy’s arse and pulls his hips towards him, barely gagging when Malfoy’s cock slides into his throat again.

No longer conscious of his actions, Malfoy moves his hips with more vigour, fucking into Harry’s mouth without delay. Harry stays dutifully on his knees, unwavering even as his eyes water from keeping his jaw open for so long. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of Malfoy’s backside, combating the pull of Malfoy’s hands in his hair. The drive of Malfoy’s hips is ruthless, his cock dragging back and forth in a hurried pace. Within seconds, he is coming, hot liquid shooting down Harry’s throat.

Malfoy lets out an almost broken sob as he reaches completion, holding still in Harry’s mouth as he pours his release into Harry’s mouth. Harry remains motionless, the only movement coming from his throat as he works to swallow every drop. Once Malfoy is finished, Harry draws back, sitting back on his heels to look up at Malfoy.

“You good, darling?” he asks, voice slightly raspy now.

“Of course.” Malfoy looks at Harry with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

Harry wipes his mouth with the edge of his sleeve. “I’m fine, I promise.” He pauses before remembering how he had held Malfoy moments before. “Turn for me, will you?”

Malfoy does so, shuffling on weak legs as he turns. Harry holds Malfoy’s skirt up and sucks in a breath when he takes in the bruises on Malfoy’s arse, purpled and finger-shaped. He reaches a hand out to trace at the discolored flesh, making Malfoy shiver under his touch.

“Um, sorry I—”

“It’s fine.” Malfoy looks back down at Harry. “Kiss them better?”

Harry rolls his eyes, but doesn’t refuse. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to each bruise, making sure to kiss each one in equal measure. When he looks back up, Malfoy is looking down at him with an indecipherable look, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Harry stands up then, stretching out his legs and pulling up Malfoy’s knickers for him.

Malfoy smiles at him for a split second before punching him hard on the arm.

“Ow!” Harry cries out. The flesh of his arm throbs in pain. “What the hell was that for?”

“That was for still not using any silencing charms or even locking the damn door!” Malfoy scolds. “Anyone could have walked in!”

Before Harry can apologize again, Malfoy drags him into a searing kiss before pulling away with a wide smile. “And that was for giving me the best blowjob ever.”

“The best?” Harry gives him a lopsided grin.

Malfoy laughs then, a sound that Harry has found himself so drawn to lately. “Oh, don’t get cocky now.” He picks his bag up from the floor, slinging the strap onto his shoulder. “Well, on to potions?”

This is how it should be, Harry thinks. Malfoy laughing with him and because of him. Seeing such a carefree expression on Malfoy’s face now, it is easy for Harry to forget that the blond had been so upset with him an hour ago.

“Potions, yeah,” Harry replies, grinning stupidly when Malfoy takes his hand and tugs him out of the classroom.

__

They barely make it to potions class on time. Thankfully, Harry remembers to cast the appropriate charms on the both of them, dispelling the smudges of red on their lips and skin as well as healing the hickeys he had left on Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy doesn’t comment on how Harry had ignored the marks left on his upper thighs and bum, although he does send a rather sly look Harry’s way when he takes his seat in one of the stools. Harry is sure the wiggle of Malfoy’s arse on the hard seat is not an accident.

When he takes his usual seat by Ron, they have already been given their instructions for the class hour, and Harry offers to go grab the ingredients. Ron gives him a suspicious look, which doesn’t go away even after Harry comes back from the shelves.

“What?” Harry asks innocently.

“You made up with him didn’t you?” Ron questions, straight to the point. Harry laughs and Ron’s eyes widen. “Oh, you had sex too!”

Goldstein, who is only a station away, perks up at Ron’s voice and gives Harry a disappointed look, frown deepening when he notices Malfoy snickering. Harry raises two fingers at Goldstein from behind Ron’s back, causing Goldstein to give an offended gasp.

“Please, announce it to the whole island,” Harry mutters.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re in a much better mood, though. Glad to have you back.”

“Glad to be back, honestly.”

They fall into silence as they work together on their assignment, only ever speaking when in need of the other’s assistance. Harry hums as he slices slivers of dragon liver, unable to keep the cheer out of his tone as he works away. When he finishes depositing the correct amount into their cauldron, he allows himself a peek up at Malfoy, who is working dutifully at the station before him.

Just then, Malfoy stands up on his tiptoes, bending slightly to peer into his cauldron. At the action, his skirt shifts up a bit, revealing a hint of bruising on the bottom of his arse from where Harry had gripped him too tightly. Harry tugs at his collar, the room feeling much too warm now. Malfoy sits back on his heels again, shooting Harry a look over his shoulder that has Harry wondering if that little show had been on purpose or not.

Harry and Ron finish their potion by the end of the class hour with an Acceptable from Slughorn, one of their highest grades of the entire year. Ron chalks it all up to Harry’s freshly shagged aura, and Harry is much too happy to even attempt to disagree with him. Hermione is more than pleased to find out during dinner that Harry and his  _ special friend _ , as she now puts it, have made up. She does scrunch her nose when Ron brings up exactly why Harry is so relaxed, but she makes no further comment past a very sarcastic  _ congratulations _ .

By the end of the day, all three of them are back in the common room, huddled around the coffee table under the guise of discussing homework. At least, that had been Ron and Harry’s excuse to rope Hermione in. She gives up trying to steer the conversation back to schooling after five minutes of Harry and Ron getting off track, deciding it best to join them if she cannot beat them.

On the other side of the room, Seamus is talking grandly to several other classmates, arms making wide gestures. Dean watches intently while Neville shakes his head, openly gaping in shock at whatever Seamus has to say. Padma, who seems to only be sitting nearby for her sister, shakes her head with a roll of her eyes.

“Poor bloke,” Ron clucks. “He’s still trying to figure out who was shagging in the library yesterday.”

Harry’s mouth twists in amusement. It really is a wonder how no one else has figured it out. There weren’t many people in the library during that hour, and Harry had honestly expected Ainsworth to pin it on him and Malfoy at some point in the day. Harry even briefly entertained the possibility of Goldstein cracking, admitting to their entire year that he had caught Harry balls deep inside Malfoy.

Hermione gives a deep sigh, eyes quickly scanning the text of her book. “I’m surprised Lavender hasn’t figured it out yet, what with her nose for gossip.” Ron nods, agreeing, and wraps an arm around Hermione’s shoulders to pull her into his side.

“What if I told you guys I know who it is?” Harry asks, tone nonchalant. Ron gives him a questioning look while Hermione flicks her gaze up, eyes squinting in scrutiny. At the too tight pursing of Harry’s lips, Hermione gasps.

“No, you did not!” Hermione cries out, scandalized. Harry shrugs, fighting the grin that threatens to break. “Harry… We need to have a serious talk about how completely inappropriate that is.”

“Wait, you don’t mean—” Ron blanches, breaking off to gape at Harry. He winces, gulping. “Please don’t tell me it’s been you that Seamus has been imitating all day.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “No, that would be uh, my special friend. He’s rather mouthy.” 

Hermione still looks horrified at the revelation, face scrunched up into a moue. “The library needs to be sanitized,” she insists while Ron rubs her shoulder in a reassuring manner.

Harry wonders how Hermione would feel if she knew the couch behind him needed to be sanitized too. She would likely feel even more disgusted, as she had been sitting on the couch just this morning before breakfast. Harry doesn’t even entertain the thought of teasing about the desk he and Malfoy had defiled in the Charms classroom.

Eventually, Hermione excuses herself to head up to her room, Ron following after her with a promise to Harry that he would return. As Harry watches the couple head up the dormitory stairs, his mind wanders back to the topic of Malfoy. He is thankful that the blond has forgiven him now, although he still feels that his apology wasn’t as sufficient as it needed to be. Trust Malfoy to be so strange that he would forgive Harry over a series of teasing notes.

It irks him, though, the thought wriggling against his conscience. They hadn’t actually properly discussed things. Harry had apologized for his insensitive comments, yes, but what would happen if Harry slips up again? Would there even be a next time? Harry thinks Malfoy would know better than to ever mention his father to Harry again, but Harry still wonders. Malfoy still deserves a much more proper apology, hopefully face to face now that they are on speaking terms again.

Just then, as though summoned by Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy appears in the common room, having just stepped through the portrait and looking much more pristine than he had a few hours ago. To anyone else, it wouldn’t look as though Malfoy had just been debauched before Potions, but Harry knows better, remembering how Malfoy had been so thoroughly marked up after their make up sex.

Malfoy easily spots him in his seat on the floor and approaches, footsteps light and movements a little cautious. Harry gives the room a quick glance to make sure Goldstein isn’t around, as he has no patience at the moment to deal with the former Ravenclaw’s knowing stares. When there is no sign of Goldstein, Harry relaxes and he looks up at Malfoy, who is standing beside him and looking a bit shy.

“Hi,” Malfoy says. He doesn’t make any move to sit down.

“Hi.” Harry forces himself to keep his eyes on Malfoy’s face, and not on his long legs which are right before him. “You okay?”

Malfoy nods and from this angle, his features look even sharper. “May I sit here?”

Forgetting their surroundings, Harry reaches up to hold onto Malfoy’s hand, tugging him down to sit beside him. Malfoy does so easily, settling himself into the space to Harry’s right, tucking his legs up under him. His skirt drapes neatly over the upper half of his thighs, still leaving a tempting amount of milky white skin on display. Harry resists the urge to stare and keeps his eyes trained on Malfoy’s upper half.

“So, what’s up?” Harry tries for casual, but his voice comes out breathy, his head spinning from the close proximity. He is still holding Malfoy’s hand, and the other man is so close that his vanilla and cinnamon scent surrounds them.

Malfoy shrugs, making no move to take his hand back. “Not sure. I just wanted to be here.”

_ With you _ , goes unsaid. Harry’s heart clenches at the unspoken words, and he gives Malfoy’s hand a light squeeze. Malfoy is gazing at him intently, grey eyes glittering against Harry’s own green. If they were not in the common room, only a few feet away from prying eyes, Harry would kiss him. And he wants to, his body aches to do so. He wants nothing more than to pin Malfoy to the ground and kiss him slow and deep, exploring that sweet mouth as though he hasn’t already become so dearly acquainted with its taste. He imagines himself holding Malfoy’s wrists together above his head and having his way with the body under him, all while Malfoy begs for more.

He tries to convey all that and more into his own stare, and from Malfoy’s shaky exhale, he’s sure he has succeeded. Malfoy inches closer, a difficult feat from how close they are already, his warmth seeping through the pant leg of Harry’s trousers. Harry doesn’t bother to check if the others are still focusing on Seamus, as all he can focus on is Malfoy now.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry again,” Harry mumbles. Malfoy pulls back slightly, but his face is still a mere few inches away.

“I forgave you,” Malfoy tuts, “in case you forgot.”

“I know,” Harry argues. His fingers move of their own accord, rubbing the soft skin of Malfoy’s hands. “It’s just, he’s still your dad. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know if I made that clear enough in my note.”

Malfoy hums, gaze dropping to their entwined hands. “It was a stupid thing to say to me, I’ll be honest in that,” he lets out a puff of breath, the top of his bangs fluttering from the displacement of air, just as they had in Charms class. “But I know fully well how my father has treated you in the past. I apologize as well for letting my emotions get the best of me last night.”

Harry frowns. He hadn’t expected that sort of response from Malfoy. He stops the ministrations of his hand, forcing Malfoy to look back up at him. He wants to argue with the other man, disagree and say he doesn’t have anything to apologize for. Harry knows all too well what it is like to be carried away by his emotions. Malfoy could have done much worse, and Harry knows this.

Before he can get anything out, however, Malfoy is raising his other hand. “No, you know I’m right. My father loves my mother and I, and there is no doubt about it, but there is also no doubting the poor decisions he’s made in life.” The hand holding Harry’s slips free, but only for a moment as he readjusts to hold onto Harry with a tighter grip. “Stop beating yourself up for it. What you said was completely warranted considering the actions he has taken against you in the past.”

“Okay.” Harry smiles, soliciting a twin smile from Malfoy as well. “I’m glad we’re okay now.”

Malfoy is much closer now, lips only a blink away from meeting Harry’s own. Breathing becomes difficult when faced with such beauty, and Harry’s chest constricts as he takes in the sight of Malfoy’s eyes. Lovely and light, looking like trapped mist. The vision disappears as Malfoy’s eyelids flutter closed, long lashes fanning against his pink cheeks and Harry follows in suit, eyes slipping shut as he allows himself to be propelled forward by another force.

His lips barely even meet Malfoy’s before a voice from across the room is shrieking.

“Draco!”

Harry and Malfoy break apart quickly to see Parkinson emerging from the stairwell, staring down at a bottle the size of an infant. Harry’s heart pounds against his ribcage when he remembers where they are. Oh Merlin, he had been a second away from jumping Malfoy in the middle of the common room with half of their year just on the other side of the room. Thankfully, none of them show any signs of having seen Harry and Malfoy, but Harry still feels jittery with the prospect of nearly having been caught.

Parkinson draws closer, and Malfoy retrieves his hand from Harry’s grip, stumbling slightly as he stands to his feet. Harry stays seated, unable to help himself as he allows his gaze to travel up Malfoy’s skirt.

“What is it, Pansy?” Malfoy questions with an affected drawl.

Parkinson looks up and Harry barely avoids being caught ogling Malfoy’s panty-clad arse. “You never told me you had Selkie Oil!”

Harry peers from behind Malfoy’s legs to look at the alleged Selkie Oil in Parkinson’s hands, only half of the bottle still full. The liquid is pearlescent, looking very much like Amortentia, but with a brighter shine. Parkinson shakes the bottle in Malfoy’s face to make her point, and the liquid glows even brighter after being sloshed around.

“Why would I?” Malfoy growls, snatching the bottle away from Parkinson. “You don’t even know how to handle the bottle, I doubt you know how to use it.”

Parkinson easily grabs the bottle back. “Of course I do, you just slather it all over your body. Simple!”

When Malfoy doesn’t bother to correct her, Harry tries very hard not to imagine Malfoy covered in said oil, body slippery and pliant, but fails miserably. He easily ignores Malfoy and Parkinson’s little argument, instead focusing on images of Malfoy spread out on a bed and completely naked, oil dribbling down his skin for Harry to rub on. Harry’s prick gives a jolt of approval at the imagery, attempting to stand to attention within the confines of his trousers.

Zabini appears suddenly, snapping Harry out of his thoughts and taking the bottle away from both Parkinson and Malfoy. “Having a problem, are we?” He glances down at Harry, eyes knowing when he sees the slight bulge of Harry’s trousers. “You’re bothering Potter.”

Malfoy looks back down at Harry and blushes slightly, clearly having seen it as well, and Harry wonders just how much Malfoy’s friends know of the whole ordeal. The others in the room are looking over now, having been drawn by Parkinson and Malfoy’s raised voices, and Harry is thankful the coffee table obscures their view of his lap.

“Whatever,” Parkinson finally says. She turns to Zabini and takes back the bottle, securing it in her arms before looking back at Malfoy with a sneer. “I’m using it, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Pansy!” Malfoy splutters as Zabini says, “Oh, that’s a low blow.”

A howl of laughter erupts from Seamus, who yells, “Malfoy! You wear a skirt  _ and _ knickers? That’s just precious.”

Malfoy glares at Seamus, but the other man is much too busy doubling over in laughter, clearly amused by the idea of Malfoy wearing knickers.  _ If only he knew how bloody hot the sight is, _ Harry thinks. Malfoy looks ruffled now, cheeks aflame and hair untidy as he runs a hand through it. Parkinson has left already, likely to go try out the Selkie Oil, while Zabini stays rooted to the spot, arms crossed and giving Harry a smirk. Harry concludes that Zabini knows a lot more than he had previously assumed.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything to wipe that smug look off of Zabini’s face, but freezes when he sees Ron standing by the stairwell. His face looks ghostly white, expression haggard and mouth agape as his eyes flit between Harry sitting on the floor and Malfoy standing beside him, still looking red and embarrassed. However, Malfoy doesn’t notice the way Ron is staring at him at the moment, blue eyes wide. Even from the distance between them, Harry can pinpoint the exact moment when the pieces finally come together for the ginger.

“Wait… Malfoy wears knickers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, ron seems to have FINALLY figured things out even though harry and draco have been anything but subtle! but what will he say to harry about it? and how will draco react to ron knowing now? i guess you’ll have to wait and see ;)
> 
> thanks again for reading!


	5. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW HERE IT IS GUYS!
> 
> thank you so much to everyone for your patience and kind words! i just started college last week and it has been a hectic ride trying to adjust to everything. i put a lot of love and care into this chapter as it's a pretty tender one, so i hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> please note though that this is the chapter where self-harm is mentioned! in the end note, i will provide both a summary of it as well as the lines where it starts and ends the mention of it so PLEASE check that out before reading if you may have any issues with it. the mention in the chapter is not explicit (at least i don't think so) but i just want to make sure.
> 
> anyways thank you guys again for waiting so patiently!!

Harry paces back and forth along the chilly ground by the lake, regretting having left his cloak up in his room. The coldness of the morning had surprised him, as he had gotten so used to the hot weather as of late. Gooseflesh appears on Harry’s bare forearms, and he attempts to dispel them by rubbing his hands over the dotted skin. The cool temperature is nothing, however, compared to the icy glare Ron is giving him at the moment, the ginger shivering on a nearby rock.

_ Wait… Malfoy wears knickers?  _ Harry grimaces, remembering how Ron had sounded, bewildered and astounded as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. Harry had sprung up from the floor immediately in a panic, running over to Ron and hauling him up into their dorm before Malfoy could realize what had just happened. Too shell shocked to make any proper accusations, Ron merely mumbled over and over about how it  _ all makes sense now  _ and  _ so that’s why you guys are always together  _ and  _ oh, bloody hell, Malfoy asked to be split open by my best mate.  _ His words had eventually dissolved into gibberish, to which Harry insisted he rest now and they would talk tomorrow with Hermione. Ron had been so out of it that he could only nod before promptly passing out in his bed.

Which brings Harry to the lake at eight in the morning, Ron squinting at him in ire while Hermione’s eyes follow the movement of Harry’s feet. She had not been told much by either of them, which Harry made sure of. He insisted to Ron that the both of them hear everything from him rather than to speculate between themselves. Only he doesn’t want to tell them at all; he had really hoped he would be able to keep things away from them for a little longer.

Hermione taps her foot against grass. “Well? Ron tells me you have something important to tell us about your special friend?”

“Yeah,  _ Harry _ ,” Ron gives him a pointed look, teeth chattering as he speaks. Hermione had been the only one of them bright enough to bring her cloak. “Tell us about your  _ special friend. _ ”

“Right. Uh.” Harry quits his pacing and turns to face the both of them directly. Best to get this over with then. “It’s about who he is.”

Hermione frowns and crosses her arms from under her cloak. “We’re missing breakfast because of this?”

“We  _ have  _ to do this before breakfast,” Ron insists, “or I don’t think I can keep my food down.”

Harry purses his lips, doing his best to quell his rising irritation. It wouldn’t do well to start off this conversation with the wrong sort of attitude. Ron’s disgust stems from his own dislike of Malfoy, Harry knows that, and yet he can’t help but feel it may be because of his  _ sexual preferences  _ as well. Harry still hadn’t quite cleared up anything on the knickers front for Ron after all.

“Ron, you know?” Hermione interrogates. She frowns and looks between the two men, clearly disappointed at having been left out of the conversation she assumes to have happened.

“He figured it out last night,” Harry rushes to assure her. That doesn’t seem to be the right thing to say, as Hermione looks the slightest bit hurt at the realization that she had not figured it out for herself first.

“Well, who is it?” She’s getting just as impatient as Ron now.

Harry takes a deep breath. He thinks of how he could work around this, maybe lie to Ron and say he has it all mixed up—Parkinson had been joking and Seamus was just teasing like always. However, Harry knows it would be a fruitless endeavor. There is no telling when the next incident will crop up and Harry would have to explain himself all over again. 

This entire week he had been wrestling over the ordeal of having to tell his friends, and now that he’s been presented with such an opportunity, he’s trying to worm his way out of it. But he’s a Gryffindor, for Merlin’s sake, and he is going to be honest with his best friends right here and right now.

“It’s Malfoy.”

A pause. A beat. Harry holds his breath as he awaits for their reactions.

Hermione sucks in the morning air between her teeth. “Oh. Oh, my.”

“I have so, so many questions,” Ron sighs. He runs a hand over his face, looking completely exhausted despite having just started the day. “I know it’s going to kill me to know the details, but you owe me answers.”

“Of course.” Harry lets out an exhale, thankful his confession had not resulted in a yelling match. Hermione still looks beyond bewildered, still processing the information, while Ron simply looks tired and ready to get things over with. Harry decides to start with him first. “I’ll answer anything you guys have to ask me.”

“When?” Ron pauses, his face purpling a bit and making him look as though he would rather do anything than know the answers to his questions. “Er, how?”

Harry’s face heats as he remembers exactly how he and Malfoy had begun this thing of theirs. He had practically propositioned Malfoy that Monday afternoon in the common room after feeling tormented by that ridiculous skirt all day. And so he tells Ron and Hermione just that—albeit a very, very abridged version. He explains how he had been so wrapped up in thoughts of Malfoy in a skirt that day that whatever resolve he had left was broken that night.

“You shagged him just like that?” Hermione does not seem to be processing this information any better. “And in the common room?”

Harry winces. “Er, yeah.”

Hermione opens her mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it and shuts her mouth. She repeats the action, gaping much like a fish, for a good minute. Harry doesn’t think he has ever seen her so speechless.

Thankfully, Ron cuts in. “So you fancy Malfoy. In a skirt.” Harry regrets thinking he had found a saviour in Ron. “Is that it? You like blokes in skirts?”

“And knickers,” Hermione adds solemnly. “Skirts  _ and  _ knickers.”

“Stop!” Ron’s face morphs into a sickly shade of green as he waves his hands frantically, attempting to swat away his thoughts. “I can’t get the images out of my mind!”

Harry has to bite his cheek to keep himself from reacting. It is an effort for him to look away from his friends, forcing himself to focus on the lake and its calm waters instead. As he stares, he can’t help but wish that he were inside the castle instead, eating breakfast at the eighth year table. Malfoy must already be down there, eating his usual plate of toast and eggs. Harry had not seen him in the morning, having already left with Ron and Hermione to make the short trek down to the lake.

A part of him had hoped to run into Malfoy out in the hall of their dormitories. Maybe he would catch Malfoy on his way to the toilets, still sleep mussed and not made up for the day yet. Something deep within his chest stirs at the thought, not quite like arousal, but it’s strong and he doesn’t quite understand it. Malfoy must look so handsome in the mornings before he’s properly ready, all rumpled with sleep and bedhead. Harry wonders if Malfoy wears panties under his sleepwear too, or if he wears nothing under at all.

“I mean, I think it’s a bit more than that,” Harry admits. He shuffles his feet in the grass, spreading wetness onto the leather of his shoes with morning dew. “He’s not bad looking, and he’s not too annoying anymore.”

Hermione arches a brow at him. “What high praise, Harry.”

That elicits a laugh from Harry, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I don’t know how to word it exactly. He’s different, though.” Harry has been reminded of that fact more times than he could count in the span of only four days, and it’s a mystery how he had spent an entire year not seeing it. “I like it,” Harry confesses, voice unwavering, “I like being around him.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Ron groans. He stands up from where he’s perched himself, wrapping his arms tight around his midsection. “Are you dating him or just shagging him?”

Harry had not expected that question. He thinks it’s clear enough that he and Malfoy aren’t dating. Although, Harry isn’t quite sure what exactly they are. Friends, definitely, he thinks. If it had been a doubt in his mind earlier this week, it no longer was. Could he count them as fuckbuddies? Friends with benefits? Only, most people who are “just shagging” don’t talk about the things they have discussed.  _ It’s different,  _ Harry tries to reason with himself. Malfoy and he are so loaded with history and animosity, it would be impossible to ever shag each other and not talk. Perhaps Ron may be onto something.

“Er, I don’t really know.” Harry cannot meet Ron’s eyes at the moment, not when the ginger is looking at him with so much suspicion in his eyes.

When Ron doesn’t speak, Hermione lets out a soft sigh. “Harry, you really need to start thinking with your head.” Her gaze drops down to his crotch in a pointed manner, making his cheeks flame. “The right one.”

Harry blinks at her. “Please don’t ever make an innuendo again, ‘Mione. It’s not good for my health.”

Shaking her head, she replies with a gentle voice, “I know he’s changed. We all have. But this is Malfoy we’re talking about here. You’ve always been a bit mad about him, and not for the right reasons.”

“She’s right,” Ron agrees. He is no longer shivering, voice firm and assertive. “We just don’t want you messing around and getting hurt.”

Harry thinks he ought to be more grateful for having such caring friends. “Right, thanks guys.”

__

Hermione and Ron’s words hang over him as he walks back to the castle, taking precedence over any lectures given. They no longer make any mention of the situation once their first class starts, but Harry can feel their knowing eyes on him every time his gaze travels over to wherever Malfoy is sitting. Something that has become such a regular occurrence for him this week now feels illicit, and he finds himself making a stilted effort to look away from the bright beacon that is Malfoy.

Harry doesn’t understand what his best friends mean by getting hurt. This thing between him and Malfoy is  _ fun _ , the outcome of surface attraction and convenience for the both of them. It isn’t completely unheard of for two blokes who find each other fit to take advantage of such a situation. Harry knows he isn’t as sharp as others may be, but he isn’t stupid; what he has with Malfoy isn’t going anywhere.

Malfoy is only a means to satiate a craving, and yet, Harry can’t forget the way Malfoy had held his hand last night, ivory fingers interlaced with umber ones and looking as though they belonged there. Warmth spreads through his chest at the memory, slow and sweet like honey, enveloping the quickening beat of his heart. He longs for the touch of Malfoy’s cool skin, to have the ability to pull him aside whenever and kiss him senseless. Only to kiss him, Harry thinks, just to have a taste of him.

Harry waits until the pang in his chest abates into a dull ache before putting those thoughts away.

The potions exam provides a great distraction from Harry’s thoughts, and he eagerly dives in. He had done his own studying just the night before after putting Ron to bed. The prospect of getting another reward from Malfoy is all too enticing and proves to be a strong motivation for Harry. He is successful in remembering most of everything he and Malfoy had gone over earlier in the week, and by the end of class, Slughorn informs him that he has passed the exam with Exceeds Expectations. Before Harry can turn around to tell Malfoy his results, he catches the strange look Ron throws him, and sits back in his seat. He’ll just have to wait until he gets Malfoy alone.

Whatever silent pact Hermione and Ron have decided on expires come lunch time. It appears that three classes is all it takes for things to be properly digested by the both of them, and certain revelations have come to light for the two. Harry isn’t sure when it happened, but he’s positive that the both of them discussed the situation and drawn conclusions together.

“Merlin, Harry, I touched Malfoy’s knickers,” Ron whispers, horrified, “his dick and balls have been in that thing. I think I’ll sick up.”

“Right, well, I quite like his dick and balls,” Harry quips. Ron’s expression turns murderous and Harry laughs around a bite of chicken.

“You said he was tutoring you!” Hermione hisses at him, not even allowing Harry a chance at defense. “How dare you turn that into a naughty thing!”

Ron jumps in immediately after, “You need to tell me where else you both have shagged. I need to start a petition to burn it all down.” Ron pauses, a look of determination passing over his features. “No, better yet, I’ll do it myself.”

“Oh, but we need the library and common room.” Harry pauses, finger on his chin in thought. “And the Charms classroom. Flitwick would be heartbroken.”

Hermione gapes at him. “Harry James Potter, you dirty bastard!”

Harry ignores her with a cheeky grin. “But you can burn down the abandoned girl’s lavatory. Myrtle’s not the only one who’s been moaning in there.”

Ron seems to have tipped over the edge of peaky into violently ill. He pushes away his plate with much more force than necessary, a few vegetables rolling off and onto the table. “I think you just killed my appetite. And my libido.”

“Are you sure of the latter?” Hermione mutters, spearing the fallen vegetables and replacing them. Ron doesn’t hear her.

Harry had not expected this sort of reaction from his friends. The warnings, Harry could understand. He would do the same if put in their position. Malfoy is… Malfoy, after all. Annoying, bratty, selfish Malfoy who has spent almost all of his time at Hogwarts taunting and tormenting Harry and his friends. He is the definition of a git and Harry shouldn’t enjoy being around him as much as he does. Although, Malfoy is also  _ Malfoy _ . Funny, smart, sexy Malfoy who is also vulnerable and just as much a casualty of the war as anyone else is.

And now he is Malfoy, Harry’s not-so-mystery shag that his friends know about and are dealing with in their own way. Despite Hermione and Ron’s concern over the situation, it is not exactly disapproval. Although now that Harry ponders over it, he supposes that it also is not exactly approval either.

Harry coughs. “Erm, seriously speaking, you guys don’t hate me… Right?”

“Hate you?” Ron asks, voice rising an octave or two. “Why the bloody hell would we hate you?”

Harry gives a one shouldered shrug. “‘Dunno. It’s, well, it’s Malfoy.” He looks over at where Malfoy sits on the other end of the table, as usual, shiny blond hair glowing under the daylight. He isn’t doing anything, not even looking the slightest bit interested in what his friends are saying, but he looks handsome. It is an effort for Harry to drag his eyes back to his own friends. “Thought you might be mad that I’m fraternizing with the enemy or something.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighs airily. She sets her utensils down to clasp her hands and lean forward onto the table. “Malfoy stopped being our enemy a long time ago. We’re just worried that you’re stopping yourself from finding  _ the one _ . Your, well, your  _ Hermione.”  _ She fidgets at the usage of third person while Ron nods at her, smiling softly.

“Yeah, that’s all, mate,” Ron admits. Despite the low volume of his words, Harry can still hear him clearly amidst the chatter of the Great Hall. “It’s, well—to be honest with you, it’s a little gross thinking about you and that skinny git—”

“He’s not all skinny,” Harry argues, thinking of how full Malfoy’s bum had felt in his hands. “Hides a fat arse under all those stupid robes.”

Ron struggles to keep his expression neutral. “I’m going to let that one slide.” He pauses to give Hermione a side glance and mouths  _ fat arse?  _ Hermione shakes her head with a roll of her eyes and Ron refocuses his attention on Harry. “See, that’s just the sort of thing me and ‘Mione are worried over. If this is just based on his appearance, then wouldn’t you rather be with someone you liked for both appearance and personality?”

In the beginning, Harry admits to having been drawn to Malfoy for his looks and his looks only. After all, Harry is doubtful that even the most ardent Malfoy-hater could claim him to be anything less than handsome. He’s gorgeous and brilliant and  _ brilliantly  _ gorgeous. But there’s more to him than that, and Harry knows that now. This past week has been all the proof Harry could ever need. Ron and Hermione just don’t understand that, and it hurts that they don’t trust him enough on this. He knows what he is doing, even if he might actually—well, actually, Harry isn’t really sure.

“I told you guys this morning,” Harry reasons. His stomach flips as he pictures Malfoy’s smile, replays the sound of his laugh. “It’s not that simple. I like being around him.”

“Okay.” Hermione fiddles with her fingers. “But do you like  _ him? _ ”

Harry likes a lot of things about Malfoy. He likes the way Malfoy writhes under him, hips bucking up for friction. He likes the feel of Malfoy’s ribs, hard ridges easily felt under the thin material of his shirt. Harry likes it when he rubs his crotch against Malfoy’s own and a sweet sound escapes the blond man. Harry likes swallowing that sound, taking in all of it. He likes the way Malfoy melts for him, the way his skin heats under the trace of Harry’s fingers, thighs prickling with gooseflesh as Harry’s hand makes its way up his skirt.

But Harry doesn’t like Malfoy.

Harry does not like Malfoy, even if Malfoy is kinder these days. Harry doesn’t like him even if he has an artist’s hand, his drawings always looking beautiful enough to be real. Harry doesn’t like him even if the sound of his laugh is like music. Even if he holds Harry’s hand as though it is a treasure meant for only him. Even if he looks at Harry, eyes glittering, with a softness that squeezes Harry’s chest.

“I like him well enough,” is Harry’s gruff reply. Hermione purses her lips, but no longer pushes, returning to her meal. Harry can no longer eat his own food, his stomach feeling much too odd.

Charms is the last class of the day for the eighth years. The trio make their way to class with no further talk of Malfoy and whatever feelings Harry may or may not have for him. Although she doesn’t say anything, Harry can imagine what Hermione would like to say to him. Likely something about how he ought to figure himself out before either of them get hurt or some bollocks like that. She does not look away from him, not even when Harry moves to take the seat at the back of the classroom where he and Malfoy had sat yesterday. Something in her eyes reflects a deep curiosity that unsettles Harry, and he opts to ignore it in lieu of taking out his Charms textbook instead.

Once he has finished setting up his quill and inkwell, Malfoy and his friends have arrived to class. Satisfaction settles deep within him when he sees Malfoy part ways with his friends, making his way to the back of the classroom where Harry is sitting. He moves with purpose, striding over to Harry in neat steps that make his skirt bounce more than necessary. Harry thinks he catches a flash of teal.

When Malfoy finally reaches the desk, taking the seat to the left, he looks nervous. “Hi.”

“Hi?” Harry lets his eyes roam over Malfoy, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and plump lips. A strand of hair is out of place and without thinking, Harry reaches up to tuck it behind Malfoy’s ear.

Malfoy stiffens. “Are you alright?”

Harry’s hand falls lamely to his side. “Um, yes?”

“Are you sure?” Harry swears he can hear concern in Malfoy’s tone. “You left so suddenly last night I thought that perhaps… I had done something to upset you.”

Harry’s eyes widen as he realizes what Malfoy is referring to. “What? No! God, no.” His face heats at the memory of having to haul Ron up to their shared dorm before he could manage to cause a scene. Of course Malfoy had been concerned, Harry had left him without even so much as a goodbye. “No, no. It’s, well, Ron sort of, er. He’s figured things out.”

Malfoy’s meek expression morphs into utter disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

Harry is forced to keep quiet as Flitwick then enters the room, drawing everyone’s attention to the front of the classroom with a flick of his wand. With the arrival of NEWTs in two months, Flitwick explains that he will be administering a practice test next week to see what each student will need to improve in. Flitwick, blessedly, orders the students to review spells with their seat partners for the day. Once everyone has begun, litanies of spells sprouting around the room, Harry turns back to Malfoy.

“Ron sort of put things together last night after,” Harry casts a cursory glance around them before lowering his voice, “after, ah, the mention of your knickers.”

“You didn’t tell your friends my identity, but you told them about my knickers. Of course,” Malfoy drawls. He then, smartly, raises his wand and does a swishing motion just as Flitwick’s gaze passes over them. When Flitwick’s attention is safely away from them, Malfoy lowers his casting hand to give Harry an incredulous look.

Harry rubs a hand over his face. “It was an accident! Your black pair fell out of my pocket when I was in my dorm.”

“How cute, you think I only have one black pair."

“What?"

“Oh, nothing.”

When Malfoy refuses to further elaborate, Harry lifts his own wand to cast a few spells. From the front of the classroom, Ron and Hermione are blatantly staring at Harry and his own partner, not even bothering to pretend practicing. Harry rolls his eyes at them and makes a face that he hopes conveys a great big  _ bugger off.  _ Hermione receives the message and gives an apologetic smile before turning away, but Ron continues staring. His eyes flit between Harry and his desk, and Harry figures he might just now be realizing exactly what Harry had meant by shagging in the Charms classroom.

Malfoy clears his throat and puts a hand on Harry’s, lowering his casting hand. “I rather wish Weasley and Granger were not privy to my personal business, but I suppose fair is fair seeing as Blaise knows as well.”

“I figured just as much.” Harry had really wanted to punch that smug look off of Blaise’s face last night. “Not Parkinson?”

Malfoy shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips, and Harry is acutely aware of how Malfoy is still cradling his hand. “Blaise figured it out fair and square. Pansy is still on the trail.” He pauses, glancing down at Harry’s hand before rearranging their fingers to interlace. “How did your friends take it?”

“Um.” Harry tries not to spontaneously combust at the feel of Malfoy’s smooth palm against his own. He hopes his palms aren’t clammy. “They have their, er, concerns. But I’ve just been, well, defensive of that. Of you.”

“My hero,” Malfoy teases. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

_ I didn’t think so either,  _ Harry thinks.

Malfoy sighs then, squeezing Harry’s palm slightly. Harry hadn’t noticed before, but Malfoy has callouses along his upper palm, directly under his fingers. “Well, it can’t be helped, of course. I haven’t apologized to them yet.”

_ Yet,  _ Harry latches on to that, not even bothering to correct Malfoy on his assumptions. As if he could so easily say that his friends’ concerns lie in the possibility of either of them getting hurt in this situation. Malfoy would likely smack him upside the head at the insinuation.

Instead, Harry arches an eyebrow at him and comments, “You’re being awfully blasé about this.”

“Ooh,  _ blasé, _ ” Malfoy chirps, “didn’t know you had such vocabulary in you.” Harry rolls his eyes at Malfoy’s grin, but cannot help a matching one of his own. Malfoy’s grin softens into something more kind, tender. “Besides, it sounds like you already did a good job of defending my honour. Don’t you think?”

Harry nods with a chuckle just as Flitwick calls out, “Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy, do please focus on today’s activity!”

“Sorry, professor!” Harry calls out before removing his right hand from Malfoy’s, only to replace it with his left.

Harry and Malfoy manage to review their charms for the rest of the class hour without any further distractions. Flitwick had proceeded to keep a more careful eye on the both of them through the rest of the period, disallowing any more non-Charms related talk, much to Harry’s chagrin. Malfoy could only smile and shake his head in that fondly exasperated way Harry found himself endeared to.

“Alright, you may all be dismissed,” Flitwick announces once the hour is over. “Please do not forget to further review for next week’s practice NEWTs, and have a good day.” Some leave class immediately, having packed quickly to take advantage of their free time. Harry takes his time in his own packing, hoping to save some time between him and Malfoy. He still had not been able to tell Malfoy of his grade on the potions exam today.

As Harry slings his bag onto his shoulder, Flitwick clears his throat. “Would Mister Potter and Mister Malfoy stay for a little while?”

Harry exchanges a glance with Malfoy, who merely shrugs and puts his own bag over his shoulder. At the door, Hermione and Ron are looking at Harry expectantly, but Harry jerks a head towards Flitwick. With a nod, Hermione flees, tugging a confused looking Ron along with her. Hopefully this doesn’t take very long.

Malfoy arrives at the front of the desk before he does, and once Harry is there, Flitwick is already standing on his usual stack of books to properly face the two men. Harry shuffles his feet as the last students filter out of the room, wondering just what this might be about. Surely it isn’t that big of a deal that they hadn’t been working earlier today, right?

“So, tell me, boys,” Flitwick begins once the door closes, “do you understand how a portrait works?”

Harry is flummoxed, but Malfoy answers in an instant: “They’re a sort of subconscious of the person they are likened after, but not complete. More of a shade of a person, unless taught otherwise.”

Flitwick nods, a proud look in his eyes. “Wonderful answer, Mister Malfoy. Now, tell me, do spells work the same on humans as they do portraits?”

“Um, no?” Harry offers. He recalls having tried to silence that awful portrait of Walburga Black in Grimmauld Place only to fail spectacularly.

“Precisely, Mister Potter,” Flitwick confirms with a nod. “Now, could either of you tell me how many portraits are in this room?”

Harry frowns, but obliges the man, lifting his head to look around the classroom. Harry counts at least ten in total, the majority of them being up on the back wall. Harry looks back at Flitwick, still perplexed, who only continues to give Harry an encouraging smile that seems to say  _ come on now, you’ve got this.  _ Malfoy on the other hand looks as though he is doing his utmost best to resemble a cherry. Only then, when Malfoy refuses to meet his gaze, does he realize the implications of it all.

“Oh,” Harry squeaks. 

Flitwick’s smile widens in amusement. “Yes, well, the portraits had a very interesting story the other day about two students.”

He pauses to flick a glance upwards towards one of the portraits over his shoulder, an elderly woman who is giving Harry a disapproving frown. Harry blanches when more portraits appear within the frame—an old heavy-set man, a blushing young woman, and a young man carrying a bundle that Harry assumes to be an infant—all with varying looks of disgust or distaste. Harry is only grateful the other portraits of the room do not show their faces.

“I refrained from telling Headmistress McGonagall because of the portraits’ tendency to gossip,” Flitwick continues, folding his hands behind his back. “Two students having inappropriate relations during a class period. Absurd, no?”

Malfoy looks as though he might turn purple, or that he is attempting to. Despite Harry’s concerns of Malfoy possibly turning into a plum, the blond nods, jaw clenched as he dutifully avoids both Flitwick and Harry’s gazes. Harry nods as well, doing his best to stave off the sensation of mortification that grows with each passing second.

“I’m sure this won’t happen again. Right, boys?” Flitwick’s tone is cheery, but he is no longer smiling. Albeit with very much difficulty, both Harry and Malfoy nod their heads again, unable to come up with any words. Flitwick nods. “Right then, you may be dismissed.”

“Thank you, professor,” Harry blurts out before grabbing Malfoy’s hand and bolting out of the classroom.

The corridor directly outside of the Charms classroom is empty, thankfully, and Harry and Malfoy walk down together in silence. Harry doesn’t know nor care where they are going, as long as he gets as far away as possible from that classroom. Merlin, all of the portraits had seen Malfoy wanking him off in class the other day. And they had seen Harry sucking him off. It is a miracle Flitwick had not reported them to McGonagall straight away, or had them expelled. Harry supposes that it may have something to do with it already being the end of the school year.

The more Harry thinks on it, the more it begins to properly settle in his mind that he had a literal audience to his performance the other day. Such a sight must have been so shocking to them, if their scandalized expressions were anything to go by. Although with their having lived in the castle for so long, Harry doubts that what he and Malfoy did has been the most scandalous thing to have happened in the time of their existence. There is, of course, the appeal in having been watched, which Harry tries to ignore despite the brief flare of arousal that shoots up his spine. The young woman with the scarlet face certainly had not seemed as disgusted by their actions as her fellow companions did.

Flitwick, on the other hand, is someone Harry would have rather preferred to not know anything about his sex life. The mere thought of Flitwick knowing something so intimate about him and Malfoy is effective enough in demolishing any sort of randy thoughts that have begun to form in his head. Harry wonders how Flitwick might have reacted when the portraits told him of what had transpired in his classroom. Likely, he would be appalled that any of his students would even think to do such a thing in class. He must also have been sorely confused as last he knew, Harry and Malfoy were the very opposite of friends.

And then Harry is laughing.

Not just laughing, but wheezing. He has to stop himself in the middle of the deserted corridor, bending over with hands on his knees as he heaves out a boisterous laugh that fills up the vacant space of the corridor and its high ceilings. He feels delirious, unable to help himself as more laughter bubbles up in his throat.

Malfoy, however, is unamused. “Why the fuck are you laughing?” he hisses at Harry, who is still bent over and practically howling with little care for how loud he is being. “That was horrible!"

“Yeah, but,” Harry manages to gasp out in-between laughs, “oh, we really thought we—we had gotten away with it yesterday.”

Malfoy scowls at Harry, his face now pink as bubblegum and completely ruining the effect. “This is absolutely not a laughing matter!” Malfoy cries out. He stomps his foot in indignance and Harry laughs even harder.

“Flitwick knows that I—that  _ you _ —Oh, how mortifying!” Malfoy wails. Harry stifles another laugh into his hand, looking up at Malfoy with glee as he takes in the other man’s flushed appearance.

“You’re cute when you fret.”

“Potter, you are ridiculous.”

Harry straightens then, grinning at Malfoy before tugging him close until their lips meet. At first, Harry thinks Malfoy will push him away and chastise him for acting so indecently in the middle of the hall. Instead, Malfoy eagerly returns the kiss, angling his face for easier access. Harry allows himself to be guided back into the wall, Malfoy pressed up against him in that delightful haze of sweet and spice. Malfoy’s fingers are tangled in Harry’s hair, tugging gently with want. Harry hears a moan, but he isn’t sure whether it is from him or Malfoy.

Malfoy slides a leg between Harry’s thighs, firmly bracketing Harry’s left thigh and pressing his hardness into the muscle there. A sharp gasp escapes Harry when Malfoy rocks his hips against Harry’s thigh, the force of the movement roughly knocking Harry’s back against the stone wall behind him. Instinctively, Harry’s hands find their way to Malfoy’s arse, cupping and groping the flesh there to pull the other man even closer.

“Please,” Malfoy exhales breathily just before biting lightly on the bottom of Harry’s lip. Harry can only nod, choosing to forgo speech in order to get another taste of Malfoy.  _ Yes _ , Harry’s lust-addled mind answers instead,  _ yes _ . He isn’t sure what it is that Malfoy is asking of him, but he will give it. Anything Malfoy wants, Harry will give to him.

The press of Malfoy’s length, much harder now, makes Harry readjust his grip on Malfoy, hands sliding along the backs of his smooth thighs and up his skirt. A filthy thrill runs through him when he only meets more smooth skin, indicating that Malfoy is wearing another thong today. His fingers toy at the thin strip of fabric, teasing and pulling upwards against Malfoy’s body.

Harry’s lips travel downwards, sliding over the slight stubble of Malfoy’s chin and his elegant neck. The smell of spice is stronger at his neck, much more concentrated, and Harry cannot resist the urge to lick at his skin. Malfoy tastes of sweat and something else, almost sweet in contrast. Malfoy rocks against Harry’s thigh with much more determination now, bouncing on his heels in a sort of rut.

“Think there are any portraits watching?” Harry murmurs into the skin of his neck, breath hot.

Malfoy squirms against him. “Stop that, you’re ruining the mood.”

Harry chuckles before sucking a mark, teeth nibbling at the spot by Malfoy’s Adam’s apple. “That’s a lie, and you know it. You like being watched.”

“P-Potter,” Malfoy whines. His hips stutter, and Harry knows he’s close.

“You’re riding my leg so well, darling,” Harry praises. His grip on Malfoy’s arse tightens, now guiding his movements to rut against Harry at a faster pace. Malfoy allows Harry to move him as he pleases, rocking along with the pace set as he edges closer and closer to his orgasm.

“Yes, yes,” Malfoy pants, hips moving fervently over Harry’s thigh.

Then with a cry, Malfoy comes, movements faltering as his orgasm shoots through him. Harry holds tight, letting Malfoy ride along the waves of pleasure. Finally, Malfoy sags against Harry’s body, wet and spent. Hot liquid seeps through the material of Harry’s trousers, and Harry can only wonder about the even more dirty state of Malfoy’s knickers.

Malfoy continues to rest on Harry, his solid weight not uncomfortable, but Harry is now much too focused on the feel of his own neglected arousal. Malfoy’s leg is still under Harry’s crotch, the light press of his hip not enough for Harry. His hips shift down for any friction, and the action causes Malfoy to stir.

“Mm, no,” Malfoy murmurs. He lifts off of Harry, retracting his leg from the space between Harry’s legs. Harry whines at the loss of contact, but is immediately shushed when Malfoy reaches down to open the fly of his trousers.

“Wait,” Harry hisses just as Malfoy pulls Harry’s cock out, cold fingers contrasting the heat of Harry’s sensitive flesh. “You can’t just pull my prick out in the middle of the corridor!”

Malfoy laughs and Harry fights to tamp down the flutter of Cornish pixies in his stomach. “I just humped your leg, you hypocrite.” Harry opens his mouth to argue, but decides it better to keep quiet. His erection has gone painful now, desperate for any sort of touch.

“What? Worried a portrait will see you?” Malfoy teases, his fingers running up Harry’s length with barely there pressure. Harry’s cock twitches at the thought of them being watched, and Malfoy notices, hand tightening around Harry’s shaft. “Oh… That’s sick, Potter.”

Harry lets out a shaky breath. “You love it.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond with words. He lifts his head to capture Harry’s lips into another kiss, prying open Harry’s mouth with the forceful press of his tongue. Harry grants him entrance with little resistance, moaning as Malfoy begins to properly pump at Harry’s shaft. His hand, now warmed from the heat radiating off of Harry, swivels over the head, gathering the precome there and sliding back down to the base of Harry’s shaft.

Harry knows he won’t last long. He cannot be bothered to be embarrassed, however, as he eagerly sucks on Malfoy’s tongue. For the longest time, Harry had never found hand jobs to be very appealing. It had always been a feat that he could accomplish on his own. But Malfoy’s hand is magic, elegant fingers rubbing over every sensitive spot on Harry’s cock with just the right amount of pressure.

Malfoy stops at the head, thumb rubbing meaningfully at the spot just under the glans that drives Harry crazy. With no warning, Harry’s orgasm rocks through him, his hips shoving forward against his will. He shuts his eyes tight, groaning into Malfoy’s hot, wet mouth as his cock pulses. The press of Malfoy’s thumb becomes an afterthought to the pleasure, still rubbing as Harry empties himself. His body gives one last twitch before the pleasure turns into something more painful, and Harry has to put a hand on Malfoy’s to stop the overstimulation.

Harry blinks his eyes open, taking in the sight of Malfoy through half-lidded eyes. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, soaking his hairline golden. His cheeks are flushed, as usual, and lips plump and looking so damn kissable. Harry’s eyes travel downwards, eyes widening when he sees the mess he has made on Malfoy’s skirt. The entire front of Malfoy’s skirt is covered in a mess of white, which has already begun to sink into the fabric, darkening the grey.

“Oops.”

Harry tucks himself back in hastily, half expecting Malfoy to be upset over the state of his skirt. Instead, Malfoy laughs at him before pulling him into another kiss, slow and deep and fond. Harry had not realized how much he loves this part just as much as the rest of it. He relishes the way Malfoy shifts in demeanor, melting against Harry in a much more different way post-orgasm. One hand finds its way to Malfoy’s head, tangling into the glossy hair there, while the other moves back to rest on his bum. Harry thinks he could do this forever.

“Er, Harry?”

The two freeze in place, Malfoy’s grip on Harry’s upper arms tightening, his whole body gone tense. After a beat of indecision, Harry pulls away from Malfoy’s soft mouth to look towards the source of the voice. His heart promptly drops to his stomach when he sees Hermione and Ron standing there, both of them looking equal parts distressed and intrigued by the display before them. It appears that Malfoy has taken notice of them as well, as he fully pushes himself off of Harry and turns to face the two newcomers. That proves to be a mistake as he gives Ron and Hermione a full view of his skirt, the stains much more pronounced now and looking not unlike a messy monochrome abstract painting.

Ron’s eyes widen before he averts his gaze, feigning interest in the bit of chipped stone by his shoulder. Hermione does not even bother to try hiding her own staring, blatantly ogling Malfoy’s sullied skirt and rumpled appearance. Harry wishes the floor would swallow him now.

He tries to think of anything to say to possibly defuse the rising tension, now thick enough to suffocate.

“Oh, hello,” Harry offers.

Ron’s grimaces at the wall, still dutifully avoiding the sight of his best friend and Malfoy. Hermione tries for a smile, the edges a bit shaky as she adjusts the stack of books in her arms. When Harry sneaks a glance towards Malfoy, it is to the sight of Malfoy looking heavenward, likely wishing for the ground to swallow him up as well.

Truly, it has been an eventful day for Harry and his friends.

“Well,” Hermione finally speaks. She blinks rapidly at Harry, as though she has caught eyelashes in both her eyes. “Ron and I were waiting around to come fetch you after your talk with Professor Flitwick.”

A strange noise comes from Malfoy then, and Harry does not need to look over to know that his pale skin has turned scarlet. Although he has moved away from Harry, he is still close enough that Harry can feel the heat of his skin, burning in embarrassment.

“Er,” Harry says intelligently. “Were you… Waiting the  _ entire  _ time?” He is certain he had not seen them at all on his way down the corridor.

“More or less,” Hermione admits, cheeks flushing.

“I wish it were less,” Ron mutters to no one in particular, face still angled towards the wall. God, this is excruciating.

Harry decides to get straight to the point. “I’m sorry, did you need me for anything?”

“We were just going to ask if you’d like to come to the lake with us,” Hermione answers. She elbows Ron in a less than discreet manner, causing the ginger to jerk into the wall. He nods absently, confirming Hermione’s words. Harry still has not made eye contact with him.

Harry doesn’t think he could possibly bear to go to the lake with his friends now, not after they had seen so much of well… Everything. He’s sure that any sort of conversations held at the lake will revolve around Malfoy. If Harry is to be honest, he’d much rather spend time with Malfoy rather than talk about him, especially when he still has a reward to claim.

“No, uh, actually I have something to do,” Harry tells her.

Hermione gives Harry a quizzical look. “Something or someone?"

“Merlin’s tits,” Malfoy whispers. Harry resists the urge to bash his head against the wall and crack his skull open.

“Right, I think there’s enough of that,” Harry mutters to himself. Then, to both his friends, “We’ll be going now, I’ll see you guys at dinner.” When no one moves, Harry takes charge by grabbing Malfoy’s hand and hauling him in the opposite direction of Ron and Hermione, desperate to get away.

“Wait, can you at least tell me where you’re going?” Ron calls out. He doesn’t say it, but Harry assumes it has something to do with his plans to set half of Hogwarts ablaze. 

“Quidditch pitch!” Harry yells back. He hurriedly takes Malfoy out of the corridor, pulling the other man along until they get to the stairs. Only then does Malfoy finally protest, tugging against Harry’s pull.

“Hold on a second,” Malfoy hisses. He succeeds in halting Harry’s movements, but does not make any move to take back his hand. “The quidditch pitch?”

“I’m claiming my reward,” Harry explains. “Got an Exceeds Expectations today in potions.”

A smile lights up Malfoy’s face, lifting his features and softening the cut of his cheekbones. Harry is a bit taken aback by the happiness that radiates off of Malfoy, awed at the other man’s genuine pride in Harry’s good grade. Malfoy’s smile is brilliant, but anything Malfoy does is brilliant, really. Something starts up within Harry at the sight, rumbling deep in his chest. Perhaps it is a delayed reaction to having been seen by his friends only moments earlier.

“Congratulations, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice is soft as a wool coat. “And the reward you have chosen is… Quidditch?” He sounds a bit doubtful, Harry thinks, but mostly curious.

Harry nods, taking a step closer into Malfoy’s personal space. “Yeah, I wanna go flying with you.” The activity hints very closely to a date, which Harry tries to ignore.

“Alright then,” Malfoy acquiesces. “Let me change first, and I’ll meet you at the pitch.”

Malfoy’s clothes are still in disarray, as well as his hair. Evidence of Harry’s completion from earlier is still visible on Malfoy’s skirt, although looking rather crusty now on the fabric. Despite the mess, Harry doesn’t think it would take more than a few cleaning charms to fix Malfoy up. Maybe a charm for his hair as well.

“Not gonna wear your skirt while flying?” Harry asks with badly feigned innocence.

Interest sparks in his mind at thoughts of  _ Malfoy  _ and  _ skirts  _ and  _ flying _ . No charm, no matter how strong, could manage to hide the sight up Malfoy’s skirt when flying up in the air like that. Harry fancies the idea of flying low on purpose just to get a peek up. The mere imagery of a broom between Malfoy’s arse cheeks, while in a thong no less, has Harry already raring for another round.

Malfoy pulls away from Harry and crosses his arms, brows drawn together. “Wouldn’t want you to get too distracted,” Malfoy tells him, correctly guessing the sort of thoughts Harry had been having. “I’ll see you down there, Potter.”

He saunters over to the nearest ascending staircase, and Harry has to stop himself from simply standing there for a chance to sneak a look up his skirt. Rather than standing idle, Harry turns away from Malfoy’s retreating form and sets about making his way down the staircase.

He encounters no one on his way to the quidditch pitch, save for a couple of second years heading back to class from the lavatory. There are others outside and enjoying the much more tolerable weather, and as luck would have it, the pitch is completely empty. Harry had thought that maybe Seamus would have dragged everyone down for a quick pick up game now that the ban has been lifted, but he can’t complain. Now, he has the pitch and Malfoy all to himself.

The extra clothes Harry always has in the locker room are still clean despite having spent the better part of the week in there. He takes his time in dressing, peeling off his sweaty clothes to don a fresh shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His broom, leaning against the left wall of his locker, looks as though it is in need of a good polishing. Harry tasks himself in doing so, also polishing one of the standard practice brooms for Malfoy, just in case the other man does not have a broom of his own.

A jittery sort of energy hums in Harry’s body, excited for a chance to be in the air after so long. Since the beginning of eighth year, he hasn’t gone more than two days without a fly around the pitch, having gotten back into the habit despite not being able to play on the Gryffindor team. Quidditch has always felt freeing for him, and he had sorely missed the activity while on the run last year.

By the time he finishes polishing the two brooms, Malfoy arrives to the pitch. His appearance is much more tame now, his hair combed immaculately and the flush gone from his cheeks. Instead of the sullied clothes from earlier, Malfoy is wearing slim joggers and a long-sleeved shirt, looking distinctly Muggle. Even his shoes, usually a pair of Oxfords, have been swapped for a pair of shiny white trainers.

At this point in Harry’s life, it is an indisputable fact that Draco Malfoy is attractive beyond reason. Only, Harry had assumed the skirt and knickers to be a factor of that, a catalyst to Malfoy’s levels of desirability. Although seeing Malfoy now, dressed in such simple clothing, Harry has reason to believe that he may have been wrong in his initial observations because Malfoy looks  _ hot _ , regardless of what sort of clothes he is wearing.

“Oh, good. I was going to ask you for a broom.” Malfoy takes the spare broom from Harry’s hand nonchalantly, as if he hasn’t just walked into the pitch looking like the most handsome man on earth.

Harry blinks. “Uh, yeah. Polished it.”

Malfoy hums in appreciation, turning to mount the broom. Harry is then treated to the sight of Malfoy’s arse, looking full and plump under the navy fabric of his joggers, broomstick between his legs. As much as Harry loves the skirt, there is no denying the sort of wonders a pair of trousers do for Malfoy’s arse, conforming to its shape. All the blood in his body instantly travels down southward, leaving Harry dizzy as he tries to remember what he is even doing out here.

In Harry’s dawdling, Malfoy has already kicked off, hovering a few feet up in the air. When Harry does not join him, he turns back in confusion. His gaze then travels downward, eyebrows rising when he sees the very clear outline of Harry’s bulge in his grey sweats.

Smirking, Malfoy asks, “Like what you see?”

Harry bites his lip, nodding. “I miss the skirt, though.”

“You didn’t miss it earlier,” Malfoy quips, and the heat in Harry’s face burns at the memory of Malfoy’s soiled skirt. Riding a broom while hard is going to be very difficult.

Malfoy doesn’t wait for Harry to join him up in the air before going off, forcing Harry to chase after him. They warm up first, flying laps around the quidditch pitch together. It starts off at a leisurely pace, before devolving into races. The wind, which had been barely a whisper against Harry’s skin, now whips against him as he races from one end of the pitch to the other, Malfoy right on his tail.

Despite using an older and less flashy model, Malfoy holds his own against Harry. He is graceful in his movements, just as he is on the ground. It’s a beautiful sight to see Malfoy maneuvering on a broom, ride smooth and having a sort of finesse to it. While on their third race, Harry comes to realize that this is the first time he has seen Malfoy flying a broom since their sixth year.

The Malfoy of that year had been sickly and full of fear, nothing more than a shell of the player he can be. If Harry is to really think about it, the last time he had seen Malfoy flying  _ well  _ was fifth year. That had been nearly three years ago, and it strikes Harry how long they have known each other for. Not as friends, of course, but they have always been aware of each other in past years. Memories of Malfoy in each year are clear and easily recalled, and Harry wonders how he never noticed how often Malfoy has occupied his thoughts.

Malfoy’s flying is both the same and different now, still swift as a seeker but somehow better. His technique has improved, his breaking not as abrupt as it had been before and his turns much sharper. Harry wonders when he has found the time to practice, as he has never seen Malfoy out on the pitch with the other eighth years.

Harry’s heart swells when Malfoy pulls ahead of him on their fourth race, beating Harry to the end of the pitch by mere inches. A smile graces Malfoy’s features as he laughs boisterously, looking triumphant when he rounds his broom to face Harry again. Harry didn’t realize how much he had actually missed the sight of Malfoy in flight.

“Seeker’s game?” Harry asks when Malfoy drifts close enough.

Malfoy’s smile brightens into a grin. “Best of three.”

Harry wins the first game easily, his year’s worth of practice aiding him. Malfoy complains loudly over him having an advantage with his broom before ultimately deciding that it will be much more satisfying when he beats Harry with his shoddy broom. That brings out a laugh from Harry, who can only shake his head as he releases the snitch for another round.

That time, it is Malfoy who wins, although Harry claims that he had done so by cheating. Malfoy denies it vehemently, but there is no hiding the smirk that toys at his lips as he fiddles with the snitch in his hand, finally able to say that he had beat Harry to the snitch. Of course, he had employed the use of underhanded tactics like distracting Harry with that fantastic arse of his, but Harry lets him claim the win fair and square.

By the third game, both of them are sore and tired, but continue on. The snitch makes itself almost entirely spare, forcing both seekers to search around the pitch for longer than usual. When the snitch reveals itself, Harry’s core is aching and his reaction time is delayed by a second. That is all the time Malfoy needs, as he is zooming off before Harry can even register what has happened. By the time he catches up to the other man, the snitch is already in his hand, glinting as brightly as the sun on his hair.

Harry finds that he doesn’t mind losing if it means seeing Malfoy like this.

After putting away their equipment, both men simply lie together, settling into the grass and staring up at the sky. The earth feels gross against Harry’s sticky skin, but he is much too tired to move, instead focusing on his breathing. He hasn’t had a good seeker’s game in a long time, much less an actual opponent in the game. During pick up games with the others, they often excluded the role of seeker and Harry would have to settle for chaser instead. Flying with Malfoy is exhilarating, and Harry would gladly suffer the burn in his abdomen and thighs for another chance at this.

With some effort, Harry rolls over onto his side, propping his head up on one hand. Malfoy has his eyes closed, long lashes splayed over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is pleasantly flushed, pink dusting the ivory skin and making him look alive. This vibrant, lively Malfoy is a far cry from the lethargic, lifeless Malfoy from the war. It is hard for Harry to even equate the two as the same person. Yet, Malfoy has been both and is both. He has been grey skin and dull hair as well as pink skin and glowing hair. It is proof of how they can all be better even after a war with children.

Malfoy’s eyelids flutter open, blinking blearily at the sudden onslaught of bright light. When his eyes focus, grey eyes clearing, he looks over at Harry and a smile forms on his face. Harry finds himself smiling back, relishing the spread of those pink lips. Even sweaty and exhausted, Malfoy looks gorgeous. The top of his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, the rest fanned out behind him against the grass. Perhaps Malfoy of the past would have complained about lying on literal dirt, but this Malfoy only smiles up at Harry in a way that steals the breath from his lungs.

“Since when did you get so good at flying?” Harry teases. Malfoy chuckles, shifting himself to face Harry properly.

“Blaise makes a fine flying partner,” Malfoy answers. His hand reaches out to Harry’s free one, easily interlacing their fingers as though it is second nature. “I used to want to be a quidditch player, you know.”

Harry’s pulse quickens at the touch of Malfoy’s hand, and he tightens his grip. “Really? What stopped you?”

“My father.” The smile on Malfoy’s face turns rueful and his eyes don’t quite meet Harry’s gaze. “And the war. Have you thought about what you want to do?”

What did Harry want to do? He had always fancied himself an auror, following after his father’s footsteps and making him proud. Although the more Harry thinks on it, the less he wants to do so. He has spent half of his life chasing after an evil wizard, he doesn’t think he could do it for a living now.

“I’m not sure,” Harry tells Malfoy. “I think I’m too stressed about NEWTs to even think about that right now. But… I’m fairly certain I don’t want to be an auror.”

“I understand,” Malfoy replies. He sighs and lifts his eyes to meet Harry’s own. “If it’s any consolation, I think you would do amazing at whatever you decide to take up.”

Those grey eyes are full of sincerity and it tugs at Harry’s heart. “I think you would do amazing in whatever you do too,” he tells Malfoy in earnest.

“I don’t think I’ll be hired by anyone,” Malfoy admits, voice quiet.

Harry scoffs. “That’s stupid.”

“Not really…” Malfoy gives a one shouldered shrug. “No one wants to hire ex-Death Eater scum.”

“That’s not fair,” Harry argues, unable to keep the shake of anger out of his voice. If Harry had been able to forgive him, the rest of the wizarding world ought to as well. “You were a kid, you still are. It’s just not fair.”

Malfoy gives a bitter smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fate often isn’t."

“I meant every word I said when I testified for you.”

“I know,” Malfoy whispers. Something in Malfoy’s voice further tightens the grip he already has on Harry’s chest.

“Hey, anyone would be stupid not to have you work for them,” Harry tells him, words genuine and pulse quickening when Malfoy’s smile returns. “You’re brilliant, you know.”

“Hm, top compliment from our saviour.”

“Shut up.”

Harry leans down and kisses Malfoy then, slow and sweet. Malfoy’s lips are just slightly chapped, a new sensation for Harry as he is used to the usual velvety softness of Malfoy’s lips, but they still feel perfect against his own. Harry kisses like a man starved, savouring the taste of Malfoy’s mouth. Before he realizes it, Malfoy has him pushed onto his back without even having to break the kiss.

Malfoy shifts himself, swinging his leg over Harry to straddle the man beneath. Automatically, Harry moves his hands to grip at Malfoy’s hips as the blond grinds against his steadily growing erection. The weight of Malfoy’s hips and the eager delve of his tongue feels heavenly, causing Harry to groan into Malfoy’s mouth. His hands slip down to grip at Malfoy’s arse, squeezing and guiding the roll of his hips on Harry’s cock. Malfoy’s own prick is hard, and Harry can feel it against his lower abdomen even through the layers of their clothing.

Harry isn’t sure how long they continue snogging for, much too lost in the sensation that is Malfoy to think properly. His cock is throbbing painfully in his sweatpants now, begging for any sort of release. Malfoy only continues the sweet grind of his crotch, alternating between pressing his cock against Harry’s and his arse against Harry’s hands. If he keeps this up for any longer, Harry thinks he might just come in his pants right in the middle of the quidditch pitch.

Malfoy pulls back abruptly then, and Harry tilts his head up to follow. His eyes snap open when Malfoy chuckles and pushes him back down onto the ground. Above him, Malfoy is looking at him with hooded lids, grey eyes clouded with lust and lips shiny with saliva. His hold on Harry’s chest stays.

“It would probably be too much if we had sex out here, right?” Malfoy asks.

He bites his lip when Harry rubs a hand against Malfoy’s arse in response. Harry is very much interested in the idea of fucking Malfoy right here. “It has its appeal,” Harry admits. His hips buck up against Malfoy’s, emitting a low groan from the blond man.

“Keep in mind that I’ll kill you if we get caught out here,” Malfoy breathes.

Harry thinks that if he were to push a little more, Malfoy would readily agree to being shagged on the field.  _ Maybe another time, _ Harry muses.

Instead, he suggests, “Showers?"

Malfoy does not waste any time, quickly getting off of Harry and stalking towards the boy’s locker room. Harry is relieved to find it empty, and strips off his clothes. He turns away from Malfoy as he undresses, realizing that this will be the first time they are seeing each other naked. Even though he has seen Malfoy’s prick and arse numerous times, he has never seen him completely nude. His breath hitches at the thought as he tugs off the last of his clothing, his hard prick looking just about ready to burst if left unattended for much longer.

When he turns around, it is to Malfoy looking away, cheeks dark and shirt still on. His joggers and pants have been discarded off to the side, leaving his flushed cock on display. He does not make any move to remove his shirt.

Harry frowns and takes a step forward. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Malfoy looks as though he does not want to admit to anything, fidgeting under Harry’s scrutiny and still refusing to look his way. Eventually, he says, “It’s… It’s my mark.”

Harry feels his stomach drop. It wasn’t as if he had completely forgotten about it, but it certainly hadn’t been on the forefront of his mind. He realizes now why no matter how hot the weather, he has never seen Malfoy roll up his sleeves once. Even now when they played quidditch, Malfoy had worn a long-sleeved shirt. Harry cannot deny the ugly feeling the mark stirs within him, but it’s Malfoy. The mark is a part of Malfoy, and Harry can live with that.

Harry moves closer and cups Malfoy’s face before kissing him softly. “Do you trust me?”

At first, Malfoy does not move and Harry’s heart thunders against his rib cage until finally, Malfoy nods.

“Are you sure, Draco?”

He looks up then, grey eyes betraying surprise. “Yes, Harry.”

A shiver runs up Harry’s spine at the intensity of the other man’s stare coupled with their usage of first names.  _ This is Draco now, _ he thinks. Draco who is both his childhood rival as well as friend. He is handsome, brilliant, wonderful Draco who makes Harry’s heart feel as though it is trying to beat out of its confines. He is Draco, who trusts Harry.

Taking a deep breath, Harry grabs the hem of Draco’s shirt before tugging it up and over his head, leaving Draco naked, pale, and vulnerable. Harry pauses, still gripping the shirt in his hands tightly as he allows himself to look. He takes in the sight of Draco’s now fully nude body, sucking in a breath when he sees the thin white scars on his chest. Even then, he is beautiful, a work of art. Harry cannot believe what luck he has to be able to have this moment.

He tosses the sweat soaked shirt to the side before taking Draco’s hand and guiding him into the nearest shower stall. Draco holds his gaze the entire time, never looking away even as he reaches to turn on the shower. The water comes out warm, sliding over their bodies and washing away the sweat of their activities.

Harry speaks first. “I did this to you,” he murmurs, tracing one of the scars with the tip of his finger.

Draco swallows thickly. “Harry… We’ve all made mistakes.”

He lifts his arm, the left one, and presents it to Harry. The action is simple, but Harry can feel the vulnerability of it. He takes Draco’s arm and braces himself for the sight of the mark, turning over his forearm with care. However, when he looks, it is nothing like he would have ever expected.

The dark mark is still there, but just barely. Small patches of the magical inkwork are visible, the original imagery marred by the numerous white slashes against the skin. It is ridiculously scarred over, as if the initial scarring had not been given proper time to heal before being cut open once again. Harry looks up at Draco in disbelief, seeing that Draco is once again avoiding his gaze. Those grey eyes are trained on the cold, sterile tile of the wall and Harry realizes that Draco did this to himself.

“Hey… Draco,” Harry whispers. When Draco does not respond, he adds, “Darling.”

Draco looks up at him again and Harry sees wetness in his eyes, kissing at his lashes and threatening to spill over. Even under the spray of the water, Harry can see his tears clearly. Gingerly, Harry lifts Draco’s wrist up to his lips and kisses the scarred flesh, letting his lips run over the pale white lines and even the pale pink remnants of the dark mark. Draco’s body trembles even under the warmth of the water as Harry continues to lave the mark with care and attention.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry breathes against his skin.

He presses Draco against the wall, making him gasp when his skin comes into contact with the cool tile. Harry dips his head to kiss at Malfoy’s neck, the pressure of his lips light as he travels his way downwards. The tip of his tongue grazes the lines of Draco’s scars, and he pours his apology into each kiss and swipe of his tongue. These marks are his own doing, and a mix of remorse and possession burn in his gut.

The chapped skin of Harry’s lips catches against Draco’s sensitive nipples, making Draco moan as Harry takes one of the nubs into his mouth. He sucks lightly, tonguing at the pink flesh and wrenching more sounds out of Draco. Equal attention is given to the other nipple, leaving Draco breathing hard as Harry continues his path down his body.

The muscle of Draco’s abdomen flutters under the kiss of Harry’s lips, tense in anticipation as Harry moves even lower. He reaches Draco’s hip, pressing an open mouthed kiss at the bone there. Draco’s cock is hard and leaking from beside Harry’s head, begging for any sort of attention. Harry continues to hold off, slinging Draco’s leg over his shoulder to nose at the junction of his thigh and crotch.

“Harry, please,” Draco begs.

His hands find their way to Harry’s wet hair, tangling it even further. Slender fingers tug gently, but Harry merely continues to kiss at the sensitive spot between Draco’s thighs. He sucks at the flesh, leaving purpled art on the pale expanse of Draco’s inner thighs. Draco tugs with more insistence and Harry gets the hint. In a swift movement, he turns his head to take Draco’s cock into his mouth, drawing out a cry from the blond man.

Harry accommodates to Draco’s length, stretching his lips wide around the shaft before lowering his head to the base. Draco’s hips are moving of their own accord, tiny shifts of his hips that push his cock deeper into the tight, wet heat of Harry’s mouth. With one hand, Harry reaches back to pry apart Draco’s cheeks, using his other hand to pet at the tightened ring of muscle there. The muscle quivers in anticipation against the light prodding of Harry’s finger, relaxing further each time Harry’s finger encircles the wrinkled skin.

Draco is close—Harry can tell from the way his muscles tense. And so he pulls his mouth off of Draco, leaving his cock shiny and wet. A low whine escapes him, but is drowned out by the moan that overcomes him as Harry finally pushes in a lubed finger, his hole easily allowing Harry entrance in. Harry sucks more love bites into the ivory skin of Draco’s hips, splotches of red and purple blooming in the wake of his mouth.

Draco does not relinquish his grip on Harry’s head yet, holding tightly as Harry strokes a finger in and out of his hole. The stretch is nothing but pleasant, and Draco can barely hold back any noises when Harry pushes in a second finger. The fingers, so thick, are all Draco can focus on for the moment.

This is different, and Harry can sense it. He manages to fit in a third finger, spreading them slightly to stretch Draco as far as he can. He watches as Draco arches his back at the sensation, rivulets of water traveling down his neck and chest in a most mesmerizing way. The heat in Harry’s gut grows tenfold, spreading and reaching all the way up to the hollow of his chest. His thick fingers continue their slow fuck up Draco’s arse, making the blond whimper in delight when they brush against his prostate.

It’s different when Harry finally pulls his fingers out, standing to his feet and ignoring the creak in his knees and the burn of his muscles as he takes Draco’s mouth into his again. Never breaking the kiss, Harry spreads Draco’s legs and lines himself up. The angle is awkward, not at all ideal for this position with the sort of height he has over Draco. He makes it work by hefting one of Draco’s legs up, pressing a hand under his thigh before slowly pushing in.

Draco is a moaning mess, knees buckling the moment the head of Harry’s cock pops past his tight ring. Muscles screaming in protest, Harry lifts Draco’s other leg and continues his slow slide in. Draco clings to him, arms wrapped tight around his neck and legs around his middle. In this position, the access is easier, and it doesn’t take long before Harry is completely sheathed within Draco, cock now ensconced within the velvety walls of Draco’s arse.

He stays there for a moment, breathing hard into Draco’s mouth. The soreness of his body is slowly dissipating with each second, now completely devoted to the task at hand. Draco’s body is slick against his, pressed tight against him in an intimate embrace.  _ This is different, _ Harry thinks again.

Draco’s eyes are clear as silver, focused only on Harry’s green. “Fuck me,” he demands, and Harry obliges.

His hands move to grip at Draco’s arse, guiding the other man’s body as Harry draws his cock in and out, setting a slow pace. With each drag of Harry’s cock, Draco tightens around him, trying to keep him from going too far. Harry groans into Draco’s mouth before kissing him again, opening his mouth to the saccharine heat of Draco’s mouth, lips, tongue. He swallows each of Draco’s noises, adoring the way Draco whines and whimpers at each thrust of Harry’s hips.

That all too familiar swell in Harry’s chest builds as he pumps his hips deeper, harder. Draco has begun to move on his own, using his grip on Harry as leverage to roll his hips, bouncing up and down in time with Harry’s thrusts. Draco is full on crying out now, no longer bothering to smother his sounds against Harry’s mouth.

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco gasps out, looking barely lucid as he bumps against the wall with each roll of his hips. “Yes… Yes, Harry! Fuck me harder,  _ harder!” _

__

Harry fucks into him with more fervency than before, replacing his tantalizingly slow pace with quicker thrusts. The staccato of Draco’s moans only further urge him on, now plunging his cock into Draco’s tightness relentlessly. Draco clutches the back of Harry’s head to keep himself from falling as he rides Harry’s cock.

__

Draco wails when he next bears his hips down, body jerking in pleasure as Harry slams against the bundle of nerves within him. The muscles of his thighs flex against the sides of Harry’s body, threatening to break their hold as Draco is overcome by ecstasy with each rub of Harry’s cock against his sweet spot.

__

Harry loves it when Draco is like this. He loves the noises, no matter how loud, but especially when they are loud enough to be heard from a room over. He loves the way Draco loses himself in it, eyes barely open in delight. He loves that he is the one who is able to get Draco like this, and he doesn’t want anyone else to have the privilege of seeing this.

__

No one else should be able to see how Draco melts when he is kissed, how he begs with desperation to be fucked. No one else should be able to see this body, so beautiful in its blemished state. All of his scars—both the mark and the ones caused by Harry—should only be for Harry to see. And only Harry should be able to further mark that alabaster skin, with hickeys and love bites and anything else to showcase that he is Harry’s, and Harry is his.

__

Harry is close now, his cock pulsing with the need for release. He plows into Draco’s tight channel in ardor, reveling in the tight grip on his cock. Draco is close too, body trembling with effort to keep himself upright as Harry drags against his prostate with each plunge of his cock. Harry loves this, and he doesn’t want to give it up. He doesn’t want to give Draco up.

__

_ Oh God, he is in love with Draco. _

__

Harry comes with a cry, hips stuttering in their movement as he empties himself into Draco. His orgasm rolls over him in waves, not allowing any reprieve as Draco continues to move in time with him, chasing his own release which comes moments later. It is as though pleasure has been injected into his veins, traveling through his body and infecting every part of him. By the time his orgasm fades, Draco’s come, painted on his own stomach, is already being washed away by the warm spray of water above them.

__

With shaky legs, Draco untangles himself from Harry and lowers his feet to the ground, wincing at the feel of Harry’s now half hard cock slipping out of him. For a moment, all Harry can do is stare. Draco is completely soaked and he shouldn’t look so attractive, yet he does, and all Harry wants to do is kiss him senseless because he loves him. He is in love with Draco Malfoy.

__

Draco moves first, hand pulling at the nape of Harry’s neck to tilt his head down into a deep kiss. It feels so strange now, so alien as Harry kisses back, pressing his body against the hard planes of Draco’s chest. Draco’s skin is warm and soft, save for the ridges of scars on his chest, and Harry loves that. He loves that Draco is so imperfectly perfect.

__

“Thank you,” Draco whispers into the kiss.

__

Harry, unsure of what exactly Draco is thanking him for, simply kisses back.

__

__

__

__

__

Harry is not in love with Draco Malfoy.

__

Or at least, he’s fairly certain he is not. He is, however, completely sure that he at least  _ likes _ Draco in some capacity. That is a strange enough thought on its own. He, Harry Potter, likes Draco Malfoy. He actually likes the bloke, not even just for sex or those damn skirt and knickers. No, he likes Draco for his personality and his intellect and his wit. He likes Draco because out of all the crazy things to have come out of the war, he is the least crazy thing Harry would be throwing himself into.

__

After what Harry now realizes was most certainly a date, the both of them had gotten cleaned and changed before heading back for the castle. Draco kisses him in goodbye before heading for the Great Hall, allowing Harry a few moments alone as he heads up to his dorm before dinner. He changes mechanically, barely registering the feel of cloth against his skin as he further mulls over his recent revelation.

__

How long has he liked Draco? This whole week? Maybe before that? He remembers feeling something stirring within his rib cage when he had seen Draco at his trial, looking pale and gaunt as ever. But Harry had not even known him then, not like he does now.

__

Now, Harry can properly say that he knows Draco Malfoy. He knows what makes the man tick, what has his toes curling and voice screaming in pleasure. He knows what makes Draco laugh, what sort of things he likes to do for fun. He knows that Draco is not at all the sort of git that Harry had always painted him to be, that he is capable of hurting and being hurt.

__

Harry likes that about him.

__

While the revelation is shocking, there is also the underlying feeling of happiness. Harry doesn’t think he has ever felt this content in forever. Just the thought of Draco’s lips, stretched into a smile, sends his stomach into a frenzy of flips. Whatever feelings he had for Cedric, Cho, or Ginny had been nothing compared to this storm that has made itself home in Harry’s heart. This thing with Draco is different.

__

Everyone is already in the Great Hall when Harry gets down there. He finds a spare seat by his friends, who give him questioning looks as he piles food onto his plate. Harry can’t blame them; the last time they had seen him, his tongue had been halfway down Draco’s throat.

__

“So,” Ron tries for a conversational tone, but fails abysmally. “How was the quidditch pitch?”

__

“Just great,” Harry replies brightly before taking a bite out of his roast. Ron grimaces, although Harry thinks it might be an attempt at a smile.

__

“You seem happy,” Hermione observes, the cheer in her voice sounding just a bit forced out.

__

Harry looks over at Draco then, likely looking like an idiot as he grins. Draco is engrossed in his own food, eating in that posh-mannered way of his with small bites. He looks… Happy. Once again, Harry is struck by how alive Draco looks. Everything about him glows—his hair, his skin, his eyes. Draco catches his eye for a moment, smiling at Harry before looking away with pink cheeks. Harry turns back to Ron and Hermione, who are looking at him expectantly.

__

“Guys,” Harry begins, “I think Draco might be the one.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "However, when he looks, it is nothing like he would have ever expected." is the line where mention of it begins and "'You’re beautiful,' Harry breathes against his skin." is where it ends! a brief summary of what happened in that paragraph: Harry sees Draco's scarred dark mark and proceeds to kiss it.
> 
> ___
> 
> okayyy ive been so excited to reach this point in the story because the shower scene was one of my fav ones that i had written in my drafts!! harry literally does a whole ass 180 in this chapter haha. also: these two seriously need to stop shagging Everywhere yikes.
> 
> anyways i hope you guys like the sort of Softer turn i took with this chapter! and thank you so so SO MUCH again for all the patience!


	6. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow firstly im so sorry for the long wait. life has been hectic and it is NOT stopping. i skived off of some work to finish this haha. secondly, draco's outfit in this chapter is entirely inspired by a gifset of fran fine that my friend andy sent me a while ago. they've been the best at encouraging me and feeding me ideas so everyone should be thankful to them! thirdly, i wrote this chapter over periods of being horny on the main so... prepare yourselves for some shameless shagging. of course, you all knew what you were getting into once you read the tags of this fic lmao.
> 
> anyways enjoy and thanks so much again for the patience and lovely comments!

“Come on, Ron. It’s time to wake up.”

An overly exaggerated groan comes from the nondescript mass on the bed in response and Harry sighs. This is the eighth time that he has tried to wake Ron up this morning, all of his previous attempts ending in little success. Everyone else from their dorm has cleared out already, all of them having gone down for breakfast a good two hours ago. Harry, being the good friend he is, had decided to stay behind and wait for his best friend. Ron has decided to pay him in kind by making him miss breakfast entirely.

“Seriously, Ron!” Harry cries out, struggling to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Hermione’s been waiting for us in the common room.”

The burgundy lump on the bed makes a miniscule movement. “Absolutely not,” comes Ron’s muffled voice. “Do I still live in a world where you’re in love with Malfoy?”

“I’m not in love with him!” Harry replies on instinct, defenses coming to attention. At that, Ron rolls over to face Harry, blinking open one eye through the little gap he has created for himself under his covers. Harry rolls his eyes at Ron’s hopeful expression. “But I  _ do _ like him.”

Ron groans again, much louder than before, but seems to be coming out of his makeshift cocoon. It is a mess of lanky limbs as Ron kicks away the rumpled duvet, effectively throwing half of his bed’s dressings onto the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick it up, instead taking to slamming his head back down onto his pillow with a frustrated noise.

Harry winces. “Is it… Is it really such a problem? I thought you guys wanted me to be with someone I liked for both appearance and personality.” And oh, does Harry like his appearance.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Ron makes a sour face, looking like a knob with his messy bed head and sleep-crusted eyes. “Always  _ Malfoy this, Malfoy that _ nowadays.” Despite his words, there is nothing malicious in his tone, and Harry realizes that Ron is teasing him.

With a laugh, Harry grabs one of the fallen pillows and smacks it against Ron’s face. “You just found out yesterday, you prat.” Ron yelps and steals back the pillow, now sitting up to face Harry. “Now seriously, is this going to be a problem?”

“You can be with whoever you want, Harry. I’m here to support you,” Ron tells him, voice sounding earnest. He rubs his hand over his face and sighs heavily. “But you have to admit it’s strange, you and Malfoy.”

Sitting on his own bed, Harry swings his foot back and forth, scraping the sole of his shoe against the carpeted floor.  _ There are a lot of strange things that have happened this week, _ he muses. It isn’t every day that you discover you fancy seeing men in women’s skirts and knickers. And it  _ especially _ isn’t every day that you get caught mid-shag by both students and portraits alike.

“I suppose it’s odd,” Harry offers.

“And this arrangement of yours…” Ron makes a vague gesture with a freckled hand. “You like him, yeah, but does he feel the same way too? Or is he just in it for well… the  _ fun stuff. _ ”

Harry digs his teeth into his bottom lip. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

He may not be the best at understanding his own feelings, but he’s certain he has at least a degree of emotional intellect in general. If Draco were only sticking around for sex, he wouldn’t treat Harry the way he does. There have been plenty of opportunities this week for Draco to completely fuck off after getting off with Harry. He never had to stick around and tell Harry the things he did, and he certainly didn’t have to forgive Harry earlier this week either. Draco wouldn’t do the things he had done if he didn’t feel at least the tiniest bit of feelings. At least, Harry hopes that to be the case.

“Just try to find that out first before you dive deep into this one,” Ron advises with a one-shouldered shrug. “It could get messy.”

“Right.” Harry sighs and rises to his feet, surveying the mess surrounding Ron’s bed. “Now, you really need to get dressed for Hogsmeade or ‘Mione is gonna hex you.”

At that, Ron dresses in record time and speedily makes a trip to the sinks. Harry helps quicken the process by fixing Ron’s bed himself, picking the discarded sheets up from the floor and leaving them folded neatly on the corner of his mattress. Despite the teasing, Harry is thankful that both Ron and Hermione have taken everything into stride. It had been enough of a reveal when he admitted to them the morning before that his mystery shag has been Draco all along. Even now, Harry wonders how Ron’s poor heart had managed to resist stopping dead right then and there when Harry confessed to being more than a little interested in Draco.

After his confession last night, Ron and Hermione had been gobsmacked and asked how he had even come to the conclusion so quickly after just a day of reprimanding. While Harry greatly attributes their fun in the showers to helping him realize just what he feels for Draco, the more he thinks on it, the more he believes that his heart decided much earlier. When Harry tells them a tastefully censored version of his and Draco’s quidditch date—Ron had teased about how he’s  _ Draco _ now—both seem to understand a bit better.

Harry and Ron finally make it down to the common room after a rushed fifteen minutes, only to find that the room is entirely deserted. The only person there is Hermione, looking rather irritated while holding napkin-wrapped pastries. Her thunderous expression does not match the cheer of her peach-coloured blouse.

“Finally!” She cries out. “I was wondering what was taking so long. I got you both some breakfast.” Ron and Harry take the pastries gratefully, Harry immediately digging into the flaky croissant.

“Not to worry, love, just having a bit of man-to-man talk is all.” Ron pats Harry’s back with a heavy hand and Harry nearly chokes on his bite of food.

Hermione merely scrunches her nose in acknowledgement. “Well, come on then, I wanted to visit Tomes and Scrolls first.”

The path to Hogsmeade is blissfully clear as the trio make their way down to the village. The heatwave from earlier this week is entirely nonexistent at this point, leaving little to no traces of ever having made Harry suffer. It allows for Harry to think of more than the harsh rays of the sun as they near the village, leading him to think incessantly about Draco. Perhaps it really has been  _ Malfoy this _ and  _ Malfoy that _ lately with Harry, but when has it not been? The only difference this time being that it’s  _ Draco _ , not Malfoy.

Ron’s words are now embedded into the furrows of his brain, spreading and infecting Harry with doubt. Maybe he has been too hopeful about Draco’s feelings for him. While yesterday’s emotional revelation had been akin to obliterating a dam for Harry, that did not necessarily mean that Draco had experienced the same.  _ It had certainly felt like it, _ Harry thinks, remembering the secure grip of Draco’s legs around his middle, the way he had held fast as Harry thrust deeply within him. It felt as though they had been connected wholly, not just on the physical side of things.

Harry is certain that Draco cares for him. He established this yesterday when debating what exactly to label his relationship with him. They’re friends, Draco has said just as much this week. However, that does not guarantee any other sort of feelings, the ones Harry wishes desperately to be reciprocated.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he completely misses the rocky shift in terrain and trips, nearly falling onto his face. Hermione and Ron rush to make sure that he is okay, but he brushes them off.

“I’m fine,” Harry assures them, pausing in his walk to gather himself. “Just thinking.”

“Yeah, about Malfoy and his stupid fat arse,” Ron mutters under his breath.

Hermione elbows him. “Ron!”

With a huff, Ron grumbles out, “His words, not mine.”

Hermione ignores her boyfriend then, instead turning to face Harry. “Are you not going to meet up with him today?” she questions. Harry blinks at her, not having expected that question.

“Well, we never discussed anything.”

At that, Ron smacks his palm against his forehead. “Harry! You should’ve asked him to Hogsmeade!”

Now that Harry thinks of it, he really should have asked Draco to Hogsmeade. It would have fit perfectly into his newfound plan to woo him. He had been so possessed with the thought of possibly being in love with Draco that it had completely slipped his mind, and now he is likely to spend the entire day with Ron and Hermione instead. Not that he minds, but a whole day of Draco to himself sounds like heaven.

“It never occured to me, okay?” Harry defends himself. He crosses his arms and taps the point of his foot against the rock he had tripped on, feeling stupid. Only he could forget to ask the possible love of his life out on a date.

“You should tell him,” Ron says. “Tell him before everything ends up sideways and you get hurt any worse.”

Harry gapes at him, not quite believing what he is hearing. “You want me to just go up to him and tell him? Just like that?” Harry isn’t sure Draco would appreciate having his trip to Hogsmeade hijacked by an ill-timed confession.

Ron nods decisively. “Of course, it’s the Gryffindor thing to do.”

“You’re joking.” Harry gives his best friend an incredulous stare. “It took you years to admit your feelings to Hermione, much less to yourself.”

Hermione clears her throat, taking a step closer to her boyfriend. “Well, he wasn’t alone in that.” Harry is well aware; he remembers Viktor Krum and Lavender Brown very clearly.

“That’s different, though! We weren’t shagging every day before it,” Ron points out and damn if he doesn’t have a point. One would think that with all the sex, it would make things easier for Harry.

Harry pouts at them, knowing that they are right. “Yeah, yeah… Okay.”

__

Not that Hermione should be made aware, but Harry has never set foot within Tomes and Scrolls in all seven years of his life at Hogwarts. Upon entering, he is reminded of Whizz Hard Books from Diagon Alley. The only difference between the two bookshops is Tomes and Scrolls’ use of only one floor, the upper level being the place of residence for the couple that owns the shop. Rows of shelves span the vast room, concealing the few patrons milling around in its maze of books.

Without warning, Hermione bounds over to the cashier’s desk, striking up a conversation with one of the owners, Matthis, and asking after his husband. Harry observes the exchange for a moment, not at all surprised that the owners of the shop are well-acquainted with Hermione. When Ron moves to join her, Harry figures that he is better off wandering the store than joining any conversations about the benefits of writing in giant squid ink.

Despite what many would think, Harry is not illiterate and is actually capable of enjoying a good book every once in a while. He is fascinated by the array of books the store features, awed by the topics covered in each volume. Hermione had explained to him that this is a  _ specialist bookshop, _ which Harry did not understand very much but had simply nodded along to. He finds himself engrossed in the shop’s selection of necromancy books when he hears a very familiar timbre from the other shelf over.

He makes his way around the row of shelves, only to pause in his steps when he sees Draco—along with Parkinson and Zabini. The latter two are standing in the middle of the aisle, making no moves to help Draco as he attempts to reach a book on the top most shelf before him, struggling on his tippy toes. It is then that Harry realizes in a heart-stopping moment that Draco is wearing a different skirt today, not the usual style of uniform skirts at Hogwarts but instead a tight, black mini skirt that wraps around his arse and pronounces its shape. The length is so short—so, so ridiculously short—that it tucks under Draco’s arse, cutting off where his thighs start.

In the buzzing that has started up in his ears, he nearly misses what Parkinson is saying.

“I’m just saying, considering you’re walking around and showing off those ridiculous hickeys,” she whines, throwing a hand out to gesture between Draco’s legs. Harry squints, unable to see what she is referring to.

Draco finally grabs the book he desires, settling back down onto his heels with a little bounce that makes Harry’s stomach flip over. “I didn’t choose to show them off,” Draco scoffs, running a hand over the tome now in his possession. “You’re the one who made the skirt this short, you cow.”

“Because I didn’t know you would be sporting polka dot bruises between your legs today!” Parkinson cries, arms flying out in clear exasperation. Harry wonders if a flair for dramatics is a requirement for all Slytherins.

Zabini snickers. “Oh my, he doesn’t hold back, does he?” He repositions himself into a sort of slouch that would look lazy on anyone else but him, cheekbones accented by the amused expression on his face. 

“Ugh, there you go again talking about  _ him _ .” Parkinson settles against the shelf behind her with crossed arms, tapping her red varnished nails against her biceps. “Just tell me who it is, won’t you?”

Belatedly, Harry realizes then that they are talking about  _ him _ . The thought is quickly forgotten when Draco moves towards his friend, showcasing a flash of the skin on his inner thighs and a little peek at the hickeys mentioned earlier.  _ Showing off so much of such perfect legs ought to be illegal, _ Harry thinks.

Draco hums thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Parkinson lets out a frustrated growl and whips her head towards Zabini. “Blaise! Tell me!”

“You heard him,” Zabini replies, holding his hands up in defense. “Figure it out yourself.”

“Merlin, Draco!” Parkinson throws her hands up, now standing straight and clearly having given up in her quest for information. “What are you even worried about? It’s not like I’ll steal your superb shag away!”

Zabini barks a laugh at that, resulting in the withering look Draco throws at the two of them. “Would you two keep it down—”

A stack of books comes crashing down then, having been shifted by Harry’s heavy leaning on them. Instantly, three pairs of eyes are on him, watching on as Harry scrambles to pick up the mess he has made. The heat in Harry’s face is unbearable as he refuses to look up at them, doing his best to return the books back into their previous state. He only hears a sigh before the books move of their own accord, neatly stacking themselves back into order. When Harry finally has the courage to look up, he sees Draco tucking away his wand (to where, Harry has no idea considering the lack of fabric that skirt has).

Harry straightens then, adjusting his glasses. “Er, hello.”

Parkinson gives him the strangest look while Zabini has the single most smug expression on earth. It takes every ounce of Harry’s self-control not to fly over and smack the shit-eating grin off his face.

“Hello, Harry,” Draco greets him, the smile on his face a tad bit too tight.

When neither Harry or Draco move, Zabini jumps into action. “Come on, Pansy,” he says, taking ahold of her arm and pulling her away. Harry hears her protest, but it is already too late and within seconds, both Zabini and Parkinson have cleared the aisle.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop,” Draco tells him when he takes a step into the aisle. Harry raises an eyebrow at Draco, whose eyes widen at his word choice. The last time Draco had said similar words to him, the lovely meeting had ended in a stomp to the face for Harry.

Deciding to spare Draco of any apologies, Harry blurts out, “What the hell are you wearing?”

Draco frowns at him, but looks down at his outfit—pale blue turtleneck, tight black skirt, and black boots. He lifts his arms, still clutching onto his book with his left hand. “The weather isn’t that hot anymore, and cooling charms go a long way.”

Harry stares at him. “I’m talking about your barely there skirt.”

Draco’s arms drop to his sides and he smirks up at Harry. “Oh, I see now. Are books another one of your weird kinks?” he asks,  leaning against the shelf behind him and hugging the book close to his chest.

“No, I think it’s just you.” Harry steps forward then, crowding in on Draco. His left hand finds its way onto Draco’s thigh, sliding up smooth, bare skin before reaching the hem of his skirt, fingers skirting under the edge.

“If you must know,” Draco begins, shifting under Harry’s touch, “the week isn’t over yet. Pansy was kind enough to transfigure me a different skirt for today’s outing, fancies herself a fashion designer, you see.”

Harry swallows and tugs on the bottom of the skirt, stretching the fabric taut over what little skin it covers. “This one is… Nice.”

A startled laugh escapes Draco. “Just nice?”

“I want to rip it off of you,” Harry growls.

Pink fills the pale of Draco’s cheeks at Harry’s words. “Pansy would kill you, you brute.”

Without warning, Harry tugs the skirt up, causing Draco to drop his book in surprise. Harry doesn’t bother to watch as the tome thuds to the ground, too intently focused on the sight before him even as Draco hisses out a “Harry!”

By the time the book has settled in its place on the wood floor, Harry has successfully pulled the skirt all the way up until it is bunched around Draco’s waist, exposing his knickers for the day. Powder blue lace stretches around Draco’s rapidly thickening cock, already looking overworked to contain Draco’s arousal.

“You matched your knickers with your top?” Harry asks, baffled.

“Shut up,” Draco grumbles, cheeks darkening. Harry laughs and presses a kiss to Draco’s warm cheek before moving his lips to mouth along his jaw. When Harry reaches the spot just under his ear, Draco places a hand on his chest. “Wait, Harry.”

Harry obeys, pausing right by his ear. He is already breathless from the thrill of being in the middle of the aisle, out in the open. “Yes?”

He finds himself pushed back, face morphing into one of confusion before Draco is dragging him back in by the front of his shirt. They meet in a harsh kiss, their teeth scraping against each other in a way that Harry shouldn’t find as arousing as he does. Want flares up within him as Draco nibbles on his bottom lip, swiping his tongue out to just barely meet with Harry’s own.

Draco breaks the kiss just as abruptly as he had started it, and Harry finds himself trying to follow that soft mouth. He meets nothing but air, forcing him to open his eyes in time to see Draco sinking down to his knees, skirt still bunched around his stomach. Harry watches, obsessed, as Draco slowly parts his legs, revealing the slew of lovebites dotted along his inner thighs. His cock is fully hard now, the familiar flush of red bright under the muted colour of his knickers.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry breathes, the reality of what is about to happen slamming into him when Draco begins to unbutton his jeans. Draco Malfoy is about to give him a blowjob, right in the middle of a bookshop. Harry’s cock gives an eager twitch to the thought, very much interested in what is to come.

“Not quite,” Draco quips right before opening the fly of Harry’s jeans wide enough to reveal his boxers.

In Harry’s excitement over finally getting to experience the divine feeling of Draco’s mouth on his prick, he remembers the pair he has on much too late. The fabric is patterned with caricature baby dragons of assorted breeds, all zipping around over a swathe of hunter green cloth—a joke gift from Charlie. Harry fights a losing game against the heat that settles on his face.

Draco does not make things any easier, failing to stifle an exceptionally loud snort into his hand. “My, Harry, your choice of pants are so…  _ sexy. _ ”

“Well, not all of us enjoy wearing women’s knickers.”

“You like my wearing women’s knickers,” Draco mutters. Harry chokes on his next response when Draco pulls Harry’s pants down in an abrupt motion, releasing his already hard cock.

Harry isn’t given any time to react before Draco grabs ahold of him, suddenly wet hand moving in a slow wank, dragging Harry’s foreskin up and down. With some effort, Harry manages to clasp onto the shelf before him, gripping tightly as Draco works at his length. Draco has just barely begun, and Harry already feels dizzy with desire, head spinning with each stroke of Draco’s hand.

Before Draco, Harry had never considered himself to be the type to appreciate the finer features of a person. It wasn’t that Cedric, Cho, and Ginny were not attractive people—they were very, very attractive—only that Harry had never been so enamored with the way their lashes looked against their cheekbones or the colour of their lips after being bitten. Harry is obsessed with every part of Draco, especially his hands. There is something about the boniness of those digits, slender and long and wrapping perfectly around his length. It looks positively obscene to have such a beautiful hand pulling on his cock, and another spike of desire runs through him.

Harry bites his lip on a groan when Draco twists his wrist upward, stopping his hand at just the head and rubbing against the sensitive spot of his glans. Draco looks delighted, pink lips curled up as he massages the pad of his thumb against a vein. Harry hopes to god that the sound doesn’t echo, unable to think past the noise of his heavy breathing and the filthy squelch of Draco’s palm squeezing over his length. 

“Better be quiet now,” Draco whispers.

That is all the warning Harry is given before Draco takes him into his mouth, sucking on the head. Harry chokes on a gasp, quickly snapping his mouth shut to cut off any other noises. His free hand flies down to tangle into Draco’s silky hair, tan skin contrasted in the blond locks. When Harry tugs lightly, Draco groans around his cock, sending vibrations all throughout his body.

God, if Harry had thought that Draco’s hands were magic, his mouth is an entirely different experience. Draco turns his head then, releasing the tip of Harry’s cock and mouthing along the side of his shaft, tongue darting out to flick small licks against the veiny skin. Harry has to swallow a moan at the sight of Draco’s pink tongue against his flushed cock, his grey eyes focused solely on his task.

Draco drags the flat of his tongue all the way down until he reaches the base of Harry’s prick, continuing further to dip his head and mouth at Harry’s balls. He takes the sack into his mouth, moving his tongue in a way that has Harry trembling with effort to keep upright. Harry is leaning heavily against the bookcase, trusting the wooden structure with all of his weight.

Then, Draco’s tongue is traveling upwards again, firm against the underside of Harry’s cock as it licks along Harry’s shaft in one long swipe. Steady breaths are all Harry can count on to stop himself from coming prematurely. He inhales sharply when Draco takes his length into his mouth again, bobbing his head up and down. As Draco inches his way down his length, Harry watches through barely open eyes as Draco reaches down with one hand to pull his knickers aside, releasing his own hard prick and wanking himself.

Harry whimpers at the thought of Draco getting off on sucking his cock, of coming solely from being able to pleasure Harry this way. His hips shift of their own accord, shoving his cock deep into Draco’s mouth and reaching the back of his throat. Before Harry can realize what he has done, Draco is gagging. The blond pulls off in a hurry, a string of spit still connecting his lips to Harry’s prick.

“Sorry!” Harry hisses, fingers still clutching onto Draco’s hair.

Draco gives him a strange look, his hand still moving over his reddened cock. “It’s fine, just wasn’t prepared.” His voice sounds hoarse.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats, unable to say anything else. But Draco doesn’t reply, instead opting to take Harry’s length into his mouth again.

Inhaling deeply, Draco takes him all the way in, going all the way down until the tip of his pointy nose is digging into the thatch of black curls at the base. Harry is unable to hold back the moan that escapes him at the feeling of Draco’s throat, flexing around his cock in a way that can only be described as fucking  _ incredible _ . With his free hand, Draco tugs insistently at Harry’s hips, begging him to fuck his throat.

Harry does not need to be asked twice and with a grunt, begins to move himself in and out of Draco’s hot mouth. He watches on, mesmerized by the sight of Draco’s pretty red lips stretched wide around him, accommodating to his girth. He tries to keep with his slow pace for Draco’s sake, content with simply dragging his cock back and forth against Draco’s tongue at a leisurely pace. But then Draco is pulling on his hip again, urging him to go faster.

Harry obeys, canting his hips at a faster pace and hitting the back of Draco’s throat with each thrust. Draco moans around him, taking his cock with ease and wanking himself even harder. There are tears in his eyes, but Harry only continues in his brutal pace, holding Draco’s head still as he feeds him his cock. He doesn’t think he can last much longer, and the last vestiges of control breaks when Draco looks up at him, grey eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Oh, oh fuck, I’m coming!” Harry cries out.

He moves his hips even faster, pulling out much too far at the last second and coming onto Draco’s face, embellishing his features with streaks of white. It’s absolutely indecent how attractive Draco looks even then, eyes closed and lips parted with spunk dripping down his face. Harry is sure that if he had not just come, his cock would be standing to attention at the sight.

Slowly, Draco opens his eyes, looking shocked at having just been spilled on in such a crude way. Then, with a well-manicured finger, he swipes a trail of come off of his cheek and sucks on his finger. Harry gulps at the sultry look Draco gives him, the blond’s eyes half-lidded as he sucks around the pale digit. Harry then remembers Draco’s own need, but is surprised to find that his own shoes are dirtied with a sticky white substance. He had been so lost in his own euphoria that he hadn’t even realized Draco had come all over his shoes.

“A cleaning charm would be greatly appreciated right now,” Draco speaks up.

Harry fumbles for his wand, expelling any thoughts of having Draco walk out just like this, looking wrecked and drenched in his come. “Right, yes.”

It takes a few charms, but eventually, the mess from both of them disappears entirely. Draco rises to his feet with grace, not at all looking like a person who has spent the past several minutes on his knees sucking cock. Harry has to look away when Draco begins to fix his skirt, tugging the tight material over his arse. Harry’s prick was beginning to look rather recalcitrant about being stuffed back into his dragon-patterned boxers.

“Considering our track record,” Draco starts, “I am expecting a lifetime ban from this shop, which I blame entirely on you.”

Harry whips around, thankful to see that Draco looks halfway decent now. “You’re the one who sucked me off in the middle of a damn book shop!” Harry points out.

Draco sniffs and points his nose upwards. “You assaulted me first, what with your attractive Muggle outfit and whatnot,” Draco defends, waving his hand vaguely in Harry’s direction.

“Attractive?” Harry chuckles at that. He didn’t know Draco found simple jeans and a henley so appealing.

Draco scoffs, but there is no denying the pink tinge to his cheeks. “Attractive? I said ugly. Absolutely hideous.”

“You know, I actually did want to talk to you about something.” Talking. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Ron reminds Harry that talking is what normal people in a normal relationship do.

Draco runs a hand through his glossy hair, attempting to smooth it back into place. “Oh, you mean you like me for more than my body?”

_ Like you wouldn’t know, _ Harry thinks.

Harry shakes his head. “I wanted to ask if you’d like to go to Hogsmeade with me.”

“We’re already in Hogsmeade,” Draco states, clearly not understanding. The slight furrowing of his eyebrows is infuriatingly cute.

“I know.” Harry sighs. He never has been very good at this. Trips to Hogsmeade with Cho Chang had been a complete disaster each time. Of course, those trips didn’t start out with Harry getting sucked off in a bookshop; maybe there is still hope for this trip. “I meant, well, you know. Walking around. Being in Hogsmeade. Together.”

Draco blinks at him and Harry swears he can see the gears turning in that beautiful head of his. “Together… Like a date?” His voice is quiet, almost unsure. Harry nods, not bothering to point out that Draco had been the one to ask him out on a “date” only a few days before.

“Alright then,” Draco decides. He clears his throat, eyes darting away from Harry’s gaze. “Just let me say goodbye to my friends.”

Friends, right. “I should do that too,” Harry agrees. “I’ll meet you down at the entrance.”

Draco nods in affirmation before backing out of the aisle, bounding away to locate Zabini and Parkinson. In his hurry, he completely forgets the book he had been looking at earlier, now looking pitiful as it lies face down on the carpeted floor, discarded. Harry bends down to pick it up, curious as to what Draco would want to be reading in a specialist book shop. Harry laughs when he turns the book over and views the title— _ Karma Sutra: The Wizard’s Guide to Magical Pleasure _ —before placing the book back onto the shelf with the other sex-related volumes. He debates purchasing the book for Draco, as he had clearly been interested in it, before deciding that carrying it around all day in Hogsmeade would not be ideal. Perhaps another time.

He hears rather than sees his friends first. It doesn’t take much wandering before he stumbles upon them, the two loudly discussing whether or not buying a very special herbology book is worth the price. Harry raps his knuckles loudly against a nearby shelf, catching their attention. Once both have their eyes on him, he explains that he is to be spending the day with Draco now. Hermione nearly drops her very special herbology book in excitement, eagerly shooing him away to have fun on his date. While not as enthusiastic, Ron wishes him luck, but not without warning Harry against shagging in any public places. Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he has already broken that rule.

With a promise of meeting up at the Three Broomsticks later tonight, Harry is let off. He heads back to the shop’s entrance where Draco is already waiting, fidgeting with the hem of his skirt. The morning light shines through the glass of the door, colouring Draco’s fair hair in a mosaic of purple and green hues. Harry marvels at the luck he has, being able to see Draco as he is. Looking at him now—long legs on display, hair tousled, and lips bitten red—one could never imagine what terrors such a beautiful man has gone through. No one could imagine what sort of scars and marks he hides under those clothes. But Harry knows him, has seen it first hand, and he gets to enjoy both parts of him just as equally.

Draco’s eyes light up when he sees Harry approaching and his posture straightens. “Ready?” He pushes the door open, disrupting the glass reflection in his hair and bathing him in natural light.

Harry squints, struggling to adjust to the sudden light that Draco seems to be radiating. “Whenever you are,” Harry replies. The corners of Draco’s mouth lift as he falls into an exaggerated bow, keeping the door open in a gentlemanly fashion for Harry as he steps through.

Once outside, Harry remembers just how last minute this all has been. He doesn’t have anything planned, not anything past the end goal of properly confessing to Draco. Ron had been right in saying he should just go for it, be the brave Gryffindor he is and let it out. However, as the door clinks shut and Draco takes his place beside Harry, Harry decides that Draco deserves better than that. No matter what, Harry’s confession must be perfect. Draco only deserves the best.

Harry looks around in hopes for an idea, his eyes catching onto a bright pink storefront across the street from them. “Er, Madam Puddifoot's?”

Draco gives him a bewildered look. “You… want to go to the tea shop?”

Despite the cooler weather, Harry feels himself breaking out into a sweat. The tea shop is well known as a spot for where couples go. “I mean, if you want to.”

“Do  _ you? _ ” Draco questions. Grey eyes bore into Harry’s own green and he swears his pores have doubled in size.

“I asked you first,” Harry counters, running the sole of his foot against the cobblestone beneath him.

Draco sighs and crosses his arms. “It doesn’t seem to me that you want to go to the tea shop.”  _ God, of course Draco wouldn’t answer like a normal person, _ Harry thinks.

Harry frowns. “Well, no, I just thought—”

“Harry,” Draco cuts him off, placing a hand on Harry’s arm. Harry stares at his still sex-mussed hair, blond strands falling into his face. “How about we just spend the day together the way we want to?”

“Okay.” Harry purses his lips, fighting off the urge to fix Draco’s hair for him. “Where do you want to go first?”

Honeydukes is the first shop they visit. As usual, the majority of those inside the shop are third years, the lot of them still not over the novelty of visiting the village’s candy shop even so late in the year. There is a specific huddle of them that stare at Draco with wide eyes when the two enter, each of them blatantly gawking at the hickeys visible between Draco’s thighs as he walks from display to display. It is obvious that they recognize him, and even more obvious that they recognize Harry. Embarrassment wells up within him at the thought of these thirteen year olds knowing that he had done that to Draco. Despite their obvious stares, Draco merely continues to strut around in his barely there skirt, completely oblivious.

Harry takes to observing his companion from a distance, especially after a particularly dirty look is given his way by a passing fifth year Slytherin. When Harry had first thought of asking Draco to accompany him for the day, he had assumed things to be a bit more on the romantic side. He could never have accounted for all these underclassmen ogling him with curiosity and likely running off to speculate about just why Draco Malfoy has been seen at Honeydukes with Harry Potter while sporting the evident signs of shagging.

In the corner of the colourful shop, close to the entrance, is a small shelf bearing little samples of new candies. Draco seems particularly fascinated with it, taking his time in inspecting the packaging for each of the sweets. It’s amusing how enamoured Draco is by the different samples on display, determined to try each one. Harry isn’t at all surprised by Draco’s sweet tooth. He remembers the usual box of candies his mother would owl him from time to time. The packages have been less frequent this year, but Harry can recall a few times when that familiar eagle owl would swoop down during breakfast to deliver a small box of sweets for him.

Distracted by the gaggle of Hufflepuffs that have just entered, Harry nearly misses it when Draco bends over to pick at a box on the bottom shelf. With the way he moves, slow and graceful like a cat, Harry has half a mind to think that the teasing bastard does it on purpose. The material of his skirt slides up in his movement, exposing his knickers for anyone to see. In an instant, Harry is at his back, covering him just before a passing employee can see anything out of the ordinary.

Draco straightens up, leaning back against Harry’s front. Harry catches onto his hip just as his plush arse makes contact with his crotch.  _ This date is meant to be romantic, _ Harry reminds himself. Ron said no more sex in public.

“Stop that,” Harry hisses, tightening his grip on Draco’s black clad hip. “You’ve already got people staring—”

“Harry, try this,” Draco interrupts promptly.

“ _ Mmph—? _ ” is all Harry can get out as Draco proceeds to shove a candy into his mouth. Harry chews around the rounded object, its texture melting like cream against his taste buds.

Draco turns to face him and stares up at him expectantly, much too close and all too distracting with the way his body is pressed against Harry’s own. “What does it taste like to you?”

Harry frowns, confused, but focuses on the taste. It tastes… Familiar. Extremely so. He continues to chew, letting the chocolate-like texture run over his taste buds. After a few more seconds, he recognizes the flavour—vanilla and cinnamon. Not just the usual taste of vanilla and cinnamon either, but a kind mixed with something sharper. Sweat, Harry realizes. It has a sort of musk to it that no other treat could ever recreate. His eyes widen when he makes the connection: the candy tastes like Draco.

“What is this?” Harry questions after he gulps down the rest of it.

Draco rolls his eyes, unrelenting. “Just tell me what you taste.”

“Uh, well. It tastes like… you.” Harry licks his lips. Draco’s lips, full and so inviting, are mere centimeters away. “Is this some sort of weird sex candy?”

There is an overexaggerated cough to his right, and Harry whips his head around to see Goldstein walking past them with an offended look. He looks two seconds away from telling the both of them off just as he did that day in the library. Before Harry can tell him to kindly fuck off, Draco has a pale hand on his jaw, dragging his attention back to the blond before him.

“It’s  _ Amor Chocolates _ ,” Draco explains.

His fingertips trace along the cut of Harry’s jaw with barely there pressure. The tip of his nail drags against the skin of Harry’s neck, running over his quickening pulse before he drops his hand to rest on Harry’s shoulder. Most of the other customers are on the other side of the store now, but Harry is still hyper aware of how public their position is, right by the entry.

Draco’s scarlet lips are slightly parted, commanding Harry’s attention. “It’s meant to taste like your favourite flavour.”

Harry’s throat is dry when he swallows. “Oh.”

“Got a bit of chocolate left there,” Draco murmurs, a slow smirk forming on his face as the words leave his lips. His eyes dart around before he leans in, swiping his tongue against Harry’s bottom lip. He pulls away quickly, much too quickly for Harry to catch his tongue and drag him back in. As Draco settles back onto his heels, Harry cannot resist running his own tongue against where Draco had been, once again tasting him. Draco hums in satisfaction.

“What do you taste?” Harry barely recognizes the roughness of his voice.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Draco teases. He gives Harry’s shoulder a gentle push, allowing him to slip out of Harry’s hold and back into the aisle. “Come on, I’m still looking around.” He walks further into the store, Harry following the sway of his hips like a dog to a bone.

The rest of their stay in Honeydukes is sadly void of any more kissing, as Draco does not approach him so intimately once in the presence of the other customers. Harry is surprised to see Professor Bautista there as well, having not expected the woman to favour sweets in any capacity after all of her healthy living lectures during the year. When Harry approaches her, she admits that candies aren’t her thing, but she visits Honeydukes as often as she can to get Jelly Slugs for her datemate.

Bautista looks down at Harry’s empty hands. “Just looking around yourself?”

“Oh, I’m just here with Draco,” he answers, jerking a thumb towards where Draco is by the candy buffet. He has a medium sized baggie that he is currently filling with various sweets. Harry spots a small box of those ridiculously priced  _ Amor Chocolates  _ tucked under one arm.

“How lovely,” Bautista comments. She picks up another box of Jelly Slugs, assessing the package before ultimately dropping it into her shopping basket. “I didn’t know you two were together.”

“We’re not together,” Harry says immediately, face heating at the unimpressed look Bautista gives him. “I mean, not officially. It’s complicated.” After Flitwick, Harry doesn’t think he needs yet another professor knowing the explicit nature of his and Draco’s relationship.

“As I’m sure all young love affairs are!” Bautista guffaws, slapping a hand over her chest in delight. Harry is glad she finds his love life so amusing. “I think it’s cute. Surprising, but cute.” Bautista gives Harry a warm smile that reminds him an awful lot of Molly Weasley.

“Uh, thanks.” Harry returns the smile in kind. He feels a hand on his arm, and turns to see Draco standing there with a very full bag of candy and a grin on his face.

“I got you some liquorice wands and blood pops,” Draco informs him, flourishing the transparent bag in his hand to show off the amount of treats he has managed to fit in there. 

Harry wonders how Draco knew just what to get. “What? You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Draco reassures him, waving a hand. “Consider it as a thank you for taking me today. I knew I wouldn’t get to do anything I wanted to if I had stayed with my friends.”

“Sounds like you should keep better company,” Harry jokes.

“Oh, I do,” Draco responds with a little wink. Harry can’t help but grin at that. Draco’s eyes widen then, and he tilts his head to the side. “Oh, hello, Professor Bautista.”

Harry remembers then that the woman is still standing by him, having just witnessed their exchange. She looks rather smug when Harry meets her eyes, eyebrows raised. Harry’s claims of  _ it’s complicated _ sound rather stupid now.

“Hello, Mister Malfoy,” she greets him, voice overly cheery and reminding Harry of the way Flitwick had sounded with them just the other day. “I was just telling Harry about my datemate. They have quite the sweet tooth, it seems Harry faces a similar problem.”

Harry’s face burns in embarrassment at the very blatant implications of Bautista’s words. The meaning is not lost on Draco either, who coughs into his fist with barely concealed mortification of his own. Bautista’s smirk only deepens.

“Well, I ought to get going now,” Bautista tells them. She adjusts her grip of the bright yellow shopping basket. “Can’t keep my Ezra waiting too long, have a nice rest of your day, boys.”

Harry and Draco bid her goodbye before she walks off and towards the cash register, leaving them behind to simmer in unease. Despite how awkward that had been, it certainly does not hold a candle to the experience that was Flitwick’s meeting with them yesterday. Besides, Harry quite liked the sound of Draco being his partner. His boyfriend. His.

He looks over at Draco, his skin still deliciously pink like cotton candy. As wonderful as he looks in that turtleneck, it’s a shame it covers the blush that has likely spread to his neck.

“Did you pay already?” Harry asks.

“Yes, I did,” Draco responds a little too loudly. He winces at his volume, and continues on with a softer tone. “Well, fair is fair. Next shop is your choice.”

They visit Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes next, much to Draco’s dismay. Harry insists anyways, claiming that he wants to see if anything new has come in. The shop is a fairly recent addition to Hogsmeade, having taken over the old Zonko’s Joke Shop back in late February. Fred and George had always planned to open another shop in Hogsmeade, but plans were cut short after Fred’s death. After encouragement from the family, George decided to purchase the empty shop after Christmas, officially opening for business only a couple months later.

Typically, Harry only ever visits the shop with Ron. His best friend has taken an interest in the management of the shop, often times dropping by during Hogsmeade trips to check on the stock or staff. Angelina is the one who manages the store, flooing back and forth between Hogsmeade and home to George. Harry may not talk to her often, but he enjoys their conversations on quidditch during family gatherings at the Burrow. She gives Harry a friendly wave once he enters which he returns with a grin. When Draco trails in after him, looking all too uncomfortable amidst the chaos of the shop, Angelina arches an eyebrow at him. Harry shakes his head at her, but the smile toying at her lips gives him the impression that he’ll be hearing from George about this.

It doesn’t help that Draco clings to him with each step, following Harry closely throughout the shop. Not that Harry minds, not when Draco is holding onto his arm like that and drowning him in his usual smell of cinnamon and vanilla. Harry swears he can still taste one of those  _ Amor Chocolates _ in his mouth when Draco steps too close to him.

The blond man is silent as Harry looks through the shop, noting with slight disappointment that not much has changed since he last visited. Harry looks around, hoping to find anything else that may pique his interest. His gaze stops on a man nearby, standing by one of the shelves and leering at Draco’s form with evident interest. As usual, Draco is completely unaware, not paying any attention to the man. With a scowl, Harry wraps a hand around Draco’s waist, pulling him close as they continue through the shop and glaring at anyone who looks at him.

“Merlin, what has gotten into you?” Draco asks after a few minutes of tense silence. Harry does an internal dance when Draco does not try to push him away.

“Nothing, just fine,” is his curt response. Harry tries to tamp down his steadily growing irritation, reminding himself that it isn’t Draco he’s annoyed with.

“I swear I can hear you thinking.” Draco’s legs stutter to a stop, effectively stopping Harry in his own sulking romp. He still doesn’t pull away, allowing himself to be tucked into Harry’s side even as he glares. “What is it? You’re the one who wanted to visit this shop.”

“It’s nothing, sorry,” Harry lies.

Draco scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You are a terrible liar.”

Harry chews on his lip. It’s unfair how good Draco looks while annoyed, and Harry struggles to remember why he had been so aggravated in the first place. Except, that’s exactly it. Draco is just so ridiculously  _ hot _ all the time and of course Harry isn’t the only one to have noticed this. He remembers the way Ainsworth had looked at Draco in the library the other day, the hunger in his eyes the same as the man who had ogled Draco earlier. Anger flares up within him again as he is reminded that he should be the only one to see Draco like this. He wants to confess just this and more, to let his feelings be known and have Draco know that he wants him just for his own.

But this setting—inside Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and burgeoning on an argument—is far from romantic.

Instead, Harry says, “Everyone keeps looking at you.”

At that, Draco’s face twists up into surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.” Harry sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. He squeezes at Draco’s hip. “Literally everyone we’ve encountered has eyed you up.”

“Oh,” Draco squeaks. The lovely rose hue of his cheeks darken, edging into a delicate rouge. “Is it so bad that all I notice is you?”

That surprises Harry. He remembers thinking of Draco as vain before, only to find that Draco is absurdly ignorant of how beautiful he is.  _ Why me? _ Draco had asked him on Tuesday in the girl’s lavatory. Harry remembers telling him something about how stunning he is, how gorgeous he looks. Now, it is all that and more. It is Draco for Harry because of this, because of how easily he can say things like that and not even stop to consider what it may do to Harry’s poor heart.

No, it isn’t bad at all. It’s exactly the way Harry wants it to be.

“I think we should get lunch now,” Harry blurts out, not trusting himself to say anything else lest he drop down and confess right now. Draco blinks up at him, startled by the sudden change of topic, before nodding in agreement. Harry leads him out of the store, mentally scolding himself for choking up.  _ Later, _ he promises himself. Later, he will confess.

They find themselves back outside, sitting together on a stone bench in a secluded part of the village. There had been a food stall just outside of the shop where Draco bought meals for the both of them—bacon sandwiches that have Harry wondering yet again how Draco knew just what to get him. They discovered the private spot after straying off of the main street, instantly drawn by the greenery of the area. A few people pass by every once in a while, however none of them pay any attention to the two men, the nearby trees providing a natural cover from any prying eyes.

Harry finishes his second sandwich just as Draco begins to dig into his bag of sweets. “Do you ever think about what might have happened if things were different?”

Draco crosses his legs to position the box of  _ Amor Chocolates _ over his lap. “A little more specific, please.”

“Well, everything,” Harry tries to explain. His eyes follow the movement of Draco’s nimble fingers, sliding the top off of his box of chocolates. “I mean, if the war hadn’t happened. Or if we’d been friends sooner.”

“Or if I had never taken the mark,” Draco adds quietly.

Harry doesn’t bother to correct him; he often wonders what that might have been like as well. During the war, he thought of Draco more than ever before. He had been plagued with visions of him in that cold manor, forced to do Voldemort’s bidding. There were a few times when Harry had fantasized saving him, taking him away from that terrible place and giving him the comfort of safety. That had been long before the thought of loving him ever crossed Harry’s mind.

“Yeah.” Harry wipes his palms against the rough denim of his jeans, unaware of when they had gotten so sweaty. “You think we would’ve become friends sooner?”

Harry thinks on it for a moment himself, imagining a world where Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy grew up as best friends. It would be strange, of course, and Harry finds the imagery of little Draco interacting nicely with little Ron and Hermione laughable. But Harry would have gotten to know this wonderful boy a lot sooner, and maybe he could have saved him too. Harry could have kept him safe, and Draco wouldn’t have had to save himself from the horror his life had devolved into.

Draco’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “I’ve thought about that for ages. I always wanted to be your friend, Harry.” He does not face Harry, eyes trained on the open box of chocolates before him. Harry is reminded of a younger Draco, the one he had met all those years ago in Madam Malkin’s. He remembers thinking that Draco reminded him of Dudley; times have changed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologizes, not quite sure of what he is sorry for. For not accepting Draco’s hand, maybe. For not trying hard enough to befriend the snooty pureblood over the years. For not saving him before the war. For not realizing sooner how incredible Draco Malfoy is.

Draco’s mouth quirks up, mirth filling his eyes as he lifts his eyes to meet Harry’s own. His eyes, practically silver in the way they reflect, look especially beautiful now. Harry can feel the forgiveness of his gaze, washing over him like the tide to shore.

“Why are you even asking this?” Draco places a piece of chocolate on his tongue. “You think we’d be shagging all of sixth year if things had been different?”

Harry blushes, unable to deny that. “It’s crossed my mind a few times.” He will never admit this aloud, but he does think their meeting in the bathroom could have ended much differently if that had been the case.

“No,” Draco tells him, shaking his head. He replaces the lid on the box of sweets before placing it to the side alongside his bag from Honeydukes. “I wouldn’t want to change anything.”

The sincerity of his words strike deep within Harry, filling him with a warmth that spreads throughout the whole of him. Harry finds that he can agree; he wouldn’t want to change anything either. He does, however, wish he had more time. He wishes this had happened much earlier in their lives, that Harry had been able to work out his feelings well before the war and have Draco for much longer. All he wants is Draco, and he needs to let that be known.

“Draco, I—”

Harry breaks off into a strangled gasp when Draco swings a leg over, straddling him in his seat. All thoughts immediately fizzle out as Draco adjusts himself in Harry’s lap, wiggling over the growing interest between Harry’s legs. God, Draco is just gorgeous. His thighs, ivory and smooth, bracket Harry’s legs against the stone bench. The length of his skirt raises with each movement of his hips as he settles onto Harry’s thighs, exposing his lace covered crotch in an indecent way that has Harry’s prick twitching in excitement.

Long fingers find their way to Harry’s scalp, carding through the thick mass of hair there and tugging to tilt Harry’s head up. He follows the pull without resistance, letting Draco rearrange him as he pleases. Harry looks up in a haze of lust, marvelling at the vision that is Draco. Shiny blond hair, sparkling grey eyes, and plump ruby coloured lips—all so lovely under the gentle sunlight that filters through the trees. Fine strands of silky hair fall into Harry’s face, just barely tickling the skin of his forehead as Draco leans down.

Their lips meet finally and Harry’s brain manages to restart, his hands automatically moving up to seek out the familiar jut of Draco’s hips. He holds on tightly as Draco parts his lips, allowing Harry entrance into the wet heat of his mouth. Harry’s tongue delves in eagerly, licking against Draco’s tongue and tasting that wonderful spicy sweet flavour. Distantly, Harry wonders if the taste is amplified from the chocolates he had been eating only moments ago.

Draco tightens his grip in Harry’s hair, pulling his head back just far enough that their lips are barely touching. “Merlin, I want you so badly,” Draco breathes. His breath smells of cinnamon too.

“Uhh,” Harry responds intelligently.

Draco is kissing him again, now sucking on his tongue and still unforgiving in his hold of Harry. Harry’s hands slip downwards, moving his grip from Draco’s hips to his arse. Draco moans into the kiss, and he shifts his hips, encouraging Harry to keep his hands right there. Obeying, Harry keeps his palms firm against Draco’s arse, squeezing and kneading the flesh there. The ends of his fingers just barely come into contact with the patterned lace of Draco’s knickers, now peeking out from under his increasingly revealing skirt.

The familiar tingle of a cleaning charm spreads through Harry’s hands, and he pulls away from Draco’s soft mouth to see the blond man tucking away his wand.

“Seriously, where do you put that thing?” Harry asks, secretly impressed by his ability to form proper sentences.

“Harry, we’re wizards,” Draco answers, as though it is the most obvious answer in the world. Which, Harry figures, really is the most obvious answer.

“You could’ve been putting it up your arse for all I know.”

“I’d rather something else be up my arse.”

Harry gulps just before Draco ducks down again, this time ignoring his mouth in favour of kissing at his neck. Without even looking, Draco grabs at one of Harry’s hands, repositioning it to fit under his skirt instead. Harry complies, much too distracted by the feel of Draco’s lips against the sensitive skin of his neck, licking and nipping at his fluttering pulse. The tips of his fingers brush against the fabric of Draco’s knickers, just over the cleft of his arse, and Harry sucks in a breath. He’s failing his plan again, he tries to tell himself. This date is meant to be romantic,  _ romantic! _ Not horny!

“Woah, wait—” Harry struggles to pry Draco off of his neck, but he doesn’t remove his hand from Draco’s arse. “We just got off earlier.”  _ And rather fantastically too, _ Harry’s mind supplies.

“Good thing we’re eighteen then, huh?” Draco hums, his hands sliding out of Harry’s hair and down his chest. He pauses to run a featherlight touch over Harry’s nipples, making him shiver.

“Draco—” Although Harry is much too late, as Draco already has his hands on his jeans, skillfully unbuttoning them and once again revealing his dragon covered boxers. He releases his hold of Draco’s hip to stop his hands. “What’s gotten into you?”

Draco bites his lip. “Nothing, just—you look so good.”

He retracts his hands from Harry’s hold, lifting his skirt and pulling the front of his knickers down to showcase that elegant cock of his. His cock is just perfect, not too small and not too large, looking almost pretty in the way the swollen crown twitches. Harry can feel his resolve melting.

“Draco…” Harry says in a feeble warning. Draco merely leans in to leave wet, open mouthed kisses at his jaw. Harry’s resolve is near nonexistent at this point.

“Finger me, please?” Draco pleads with him, voice breathy over the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry knows he should put a stop to this, but all arguments grow weaker by the second as all blood rushes down south.

In his indecision, Draco lets out a frustrated noise, clearly unhappy about the lack of attention Harry is giving him. “Come on,” he whines, “I want your thick fingers in me.” And fuck, does Harry’s cock like the sound of that.

“I thought you didn’t like doing it in public,” he argues weakly.

Draco shakes his head, laughing his way into another messy kiss. “Consider me converted.” 

Before Harry can utter another word, Draco releases his cock, letting his length bob against Draco’s own. Harry sucks in a breath at the sensation, his prick still sensitive from their activities earlier this morning. In an instant, Draco has a spit-slicked hand wrapped around both of their lengths, squeezing lightly at the sensitive flesh. It feels incredible, and Harry knows that it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.

Draco gives a sharp tug that makes Harry yelp, bringing him back to the present. “Harry, my arse, if you please.” He squeezes at Harry’s wrist, reminding him of what he is meant to do.

With a muttered spell, Harry finds himself with slick fingers, wet and seeking out Draco’s hole. He slips his hand under Draco’s knickers, uncaring of how he stretches the elastic. It is an effort for him to focus on the task at hand, his attention competing with the slow wank Draco has now developed over their joined cocks. Harry traces between Draco’s cheeks, leaving a slick trail against his cleft before finding the wrinkled skin of Draco’s hole.

A whimper exits Draco’s mouth as Harry proceeds to pet at his hole, doing nothing more than massaging at the skin, wetting the area. Harry increases the pressure of his finger, making Draco’s hips move involuntarily. The friction of his cock against Harry’s is delicious, and both men groan in twin pleasure. Harry knows he should be more quiet; the trees provide cover, but anyone walking by would be able to hear them.

“Just do it already,” Draco orders, his patience waning thin. “Fuck those fingers into my— _ Ah! _ ”

Harry pushes two fingers in without warning, and he can feel the muscle struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion. “Merlin, you’ve got such a dirty mouth.”

Draco can barely respond, eyes clenched shut against the feel of Harry’s fingers inside him. Harry pushes in further, almost forcing the constricting muscles to conform to the shape of his fingers. Once he manages up to his knuckles, he pulls out slowly, allowing Draco to adjust. He repeats the motion a few more times, simply dragging his fingers in and out of Draco to stretch him, feeling the ring of muscle start to give way to his ministrations.

At this point, Draco has completely let go of their pricks, once again tangling his hands into the unruly mop that is Harry’s hair. His grasp is forceful as he ruts against Harry’s cock, bouncing his hips up and down in tandem with the movement of Harry’s fingers. The grind of Draco’s cock, hot and smooth against Harry’s own, is heavenly. Heat pools into Harry’s groin with each stroke, and he focuses on matching the pace with his fingers. He pushes in further, harder than before, curling his fingers against Draco’s inner walls.

Draco emits a sharp cry when Harry crooks his fingers, pressing into his sweet spot. Harry continues to rub at the area, loving the way Draco’s body trembles at the sensation. He ignores the strain he is beginning to feel in his wrist, powering through the pain to scissor his fingers. The pads of his fingers thrum against Draco’s prostate, unrelenting in their pace. Draco’s hips move faster against Harry’s now, alternating between grinding against Harry’s cock and heaving down onto Harry’s fingers. The breathy moans, the hitch of his breath—all signs that he is close to completion.

“Come for me,” Harry urges.

At his words, Draco comes, his movements faltering as he reaches his peak. Harry watches on, unable to look away as Draco orgasms. Even coming he does beautifully, white liquid spilling out and over his cock in an almost graceful manner. All through it, Harry continues to press against his prostate, milking Draco of every last drop. Eventually, Draco’s tremors subside, and Harry pulls his fingers out gingerly.

Draco leans back, pushing against Harry’s chest before reaching down to cradle Harry’s still hard cock in his palm. “Let me.”

“No.” Harry pushes his hand away to grab ahold of his own length. “Just… Just stay like that. Keep your skirt up.”

Biting his lip, Draco obeys, keeping still on Harry’s lap. His skirt stays scrunched up above his waist, allowing Harry a clear view of his now softening cock against his knickers and the hickeys between his legs. The milky skin of his thighs bear Harry’s marks so well, and Harry cannot wait to cover them in even more marks once the initial ones have healed. Harry tugs harder, concentrating on the display before him. Draco is always so gorgeous post-sex, flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He paints an erotic picture like this, sat on Harry’s thighs looking blissed out and legs spread apart, looking ready for more.

Harry can feel a cold wetness on his thighs, the result of Draco’s come spilling onto his jeans, now soaking the denim. Harry is so close now, the head of his cock purpled in its need for release. His orgasm hits just as he raises his eyes to meet Draco’s own, spurts of come splashing against the cashmere of Draco’s sweater. Harry can’t deny that he loves the look of Draco covered in his come.

“Fuck,” he exhales as his orgasm subsides.

Draco grimaces at the spunk now clinging to his shirt. “That was lovely, but I swear if this stains…”

“I can’t believe you.” Harry leans back against the cool stone, heaving. “You need to—to stop  _ seducing _ me.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so susceptible to my charms,” Draco teases. He pushes off of Harry then, graciously tucking Harry back into his pants before fixing himself. A noise of appreciation is made when Harry cleans the both of them up with a wave of his wand.

Harry’s head lolls forward again, fixing Draco with a lopsided grin. “Oh? Learned all that in your little  _ Karma Sutra _ book, didn’t you?”

Draco reddens, face pinching into a scowl. “You are such a git.”

“Yeah, well, this git just gave you an orgasm,” Harry returns, wiggling his fingers at him. He snorts when Draco swats at his thigh in retaliation.

“Just for your cheek,” Draco replies, “I demand you take me to Ceridwen’s Cauldrons next.” He moves to gather their things, vanishing the remains of their sandwiches and shrinking down their candy bags.

“Whatever you want, darling,” Harry responds, meaning every word.

__  
  


The shop is one of the smaller ones in Hogsmeade, the size of the entire floorspace only slightly larger than that of a dormitory. There is barely any light within the shop as well, the candlelight faint and leaving Harry to rely on the afternoon sun to see around the shop. Draco explains to him that it is for the purpose of preserving the cauldrons, the low light protecting the material of the cauldrons from deteriorating in quality.

The store is empty when they enter, much to Harry’s relief; there are no younger students gawking at him or older men giving Draco lascivious looks. There is only Miss Ceri, the little old lady who owns the shop. After only a few minutes inside Ceridwen’s Cauldrons, Harry decides that he rather likes Miss Ceri. She offers them her assistance should they need it, taking her time in explaining the deals she has on for today, but generally keeps her distance from them.

With a store so small, the “distance” given is insignificant. Harry is very well aware of her presence only a few yards away, sitting in the far corner at the tiny register and reading a raunchy romance novel about a bisexual vampire. Harry only knows because he recognizes the mortal blond-haired love interest on the cover, his billowing white shirt torn to shreds while the vampire Thaddeus feeds on his neck. Harry had read the book a couple years ago while spending Christmas at the Weasleys, finding the reading material in Percy’s room of all places. It had been one of the more eye-opening moments of Harry’s journey in discovering his sexuality.

Either way, she does not try to interact with them any further. She doesn’t make any comments about Draco’s appearance, or any judgemental faces at the marks between his legs. She doesn’t even make any mention of Harry’s name. In fact, she doesn’t seem to recognize Harry at all. That is something Harry can appreciate, even if she only sits a handful of paces away while he browses with Draco.

“I don’t think I’ll actually buy anything, you know,” Draco informs him as he inspects one of the store’s many self-brewing cauldrons. “I already have too many, but it’s nice to look around.”

“Totally,” Harry agrees absently, not quite listening. He had been too distracted by the barely visible piece of lint that has stuck itself to the front of Draco’s hair.

Draco shakes his head, and the piece of lint falls away. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“I swear I was when you were explaining the mechanics of it,” Harry promises, slightly sheepish. The little lecture was interesting at first, until Harry had been reminded of Hermione and his attention swiftly diverted to the now missing piece of lint in Draco’s glossy hair.

“Do I have to dress one of the cauldrons up in a pair of knickers for you to care?” Draco huffs. His voice betrays the slightest hint of an edge to it despite his attempt at a playful tone.

_ What’s that supposed to mean?  _ Harry takes in the lines of Draco’s body, now tense and strained. He has taken to crossing his arms again, completely closing himself off from Harry. Once again, Harry is thankful for the lack of a crowd within the shop, barely able to process this while alone with Draco.

“Um, did I say something wrong?” Harry tries. Better to strike at the issue right away.

“It’s Saturday, Potter,” Draco replies cryptically. Harry does not miss the deliberate usage of his surname.

Confused, Harry can only say, “Yeah, and?”

It seems to be the wrong thing to say, as disappointment shadows Draco’s features. “It’s Saturday today. The day before Sunday.”

“I’m well aware.” Frustration crawls under Harry’s skin, even as he tries to push it back. “Are you just going to give me a lesson on the days of the week?”

“The week is ending, Potter!” Draco cries out, throwing his arms out and nearly thwacking a floating cauldron. Harry casts a glance over at Miss Ceri who, much to his relief, has not stopped reading her erotic fiction. “Today and tomorrow is my last day wearing this skirt.”

Harry shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Once again, I’m well aware.”

“You don’t care?” comes Draco’s response, words quiet and fragile.

When Harry opens his eyes, Draco no longer looks upset, but bewildered instead. It is as though he cannot fathom how Harry could not care. Harry feels equally confused, still not understanding the cause of Draco’s sudden change in demeanor.

“Am I supposed to?” he asks, uncaring of how dumb the question may be.

Draco doesn’t answer, choosing to turn away from Harry instead. His face has turned red again; out of anger or embarrassment, Harry can’t tell. He tries to understand what is upsetting him so much, to understand what may have set him off in such a way. Why would the week ending even matter to Harry?

Suddenly, it clicks.

“My god,” Harry groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is this why you’ve been hornier than a kneazle in heat today?”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco turns to face him again with an affronted expression.

“I just mean—Ugh.” Harry fixes him with a solemn look. “Draco, skirt or not, I would still shag you silly!”

Harry really hopes that Miss Ceri isn’t currently listening in on their conversation.

“You have such a way with words. I’m swooning, truly,” Draco mocks, but Harry can see some of the tension leave his shoulders.

“I mean it,” Harry reaffirms. This still isn’t his confession, but he considers it as his warm up. A pre-show, he reasons with himself. “Draco Malfoy, you are the hottest thing I have ever laid eyes on, whether you have a skirt on or not.”

Draco wrinkles his nose, but does not resist when Harry tugs him close, gracefully stepping into Harry’s space. With a sigh, he says, “I’m being a prat aren’t I?”

“Well…” A fist to Harry’s chest shuts him up before he can continue.

“I’m sorry I’ve been hornier than a kneazle in heat today,” Draco apologizes. Harry thinks that in any other instance, that is not something to be apologizing for.

“Forgiven.” Harry slides his hands down until they find the small of Draco’s back. “Now, could Professor Malfoy please explain to me the properties of a gold cauldron?”

“Promise to be a good student?” A small smile has found its way onto Draco’s face again.

“I’m all ears.”

True to his word, he does listen. Draco rambles on and on about the benefits of a gold cauldron, explaining the quick brewing time and lack of effectivity decrease for any and all potions. Harry doesn’t understand some of the terminology he uses, but follows along easily enough. It isn’t at all how it is when listening to a professor lecture, or even Hermione this time. Draco’s voice is soothing while passionate, and Harry thinks he could listen to it for the rest of his life.

This confession of his is close, he can feel it.  _ You should tell him, _ Ron’s words echo through his mind,  _ tell him before everything ends up sideways and you get hurt any worse. _ And he wants to, he wants nothing more than to drop to his knees and let his feelings be known. He wants to hold on tight to Draco and tell him how he drives him wild. He wants to let Draco know all about how he makes Harry crazy with want, how he makes Harry want to love him in spite of everything. But… It doesn’t feel right. Not yet.

Harry takes Draco’s hand into his own without a second thought, relishing the perfect fit of their palms together. “How do you want to end today?”

“Well, I’ve nowhere else to visit,” Draco confesses. He adjusts his hand to better hold on. “Besides, it’s your turn to choose.”

“My friends and I planned to meet up at the Three Broomsticks for drinks and dinner.” He imagines Draco, sitting beside him as though it is the most normal thing in the world. He struggles to contain the smile that particular thought produces. “Come with me?”

A pained expression flashes across Draco’s face. “You’re sure they won’t mind?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Hermione and Ron know,” Harry reminds him. He lifts their joined hands to press a chaste kiss to the back of Draco’s hand, chapped lips against soft skin. 

“Right.” Draco clears his throat, eyes following when Harry lowers their hands. “Lead the way then.”

After bidding Miss Ceri goodbye, the two exit the shop and make their way down the street to the Three Broomsticks. As Harry had suspected, his friends are already there, sharing plates of food between them all. Hermione and Ron, thankfully, make no inappropriate comments when Harry brings Draco along to their table. Ron offers a hello which Hermione echoes, but from the way she gnaws on her lower lip, Harry knows that she is just dying to make a comment about the lovebites she had seen between Draco’s legs. Dean and Seamus are already too drunk to even notice how strange it is to have Draco sitting with them, leaving Ginny and Luna to simmer in their speculations. Harry ignores them in favour of focusing on Draco.

Harry is, to put it simply, smitten by how Draco looks under the soft candlelight. Despite the dimness of the pub, Draco glows, bathed in the amber light. Harry feels like a moth drawn to a flame, sidling closer and closer until Draco’s warmth is completely pressed up against him. At first, Draco is agitated, picking at his food with little interest and taking small sips of the butterbeer offered to him. But then, as easy as flying, Harry takes him into his hand and all apprehension seeps out of him. After only a few more minutes of coaxing, Harry has Draco leaning against him, no longer worried about what his friends might say.

“So, Draco, where did you two go after Tomes and Scrolls?” Hermione asks in her effort to include Draco into the conversation.

He blinks at her for a moment, stunned by the direct address. “Oh, we went to Honeydukes,” he answers, settling in more comfortably against Harry’s side. “Then the joke shop after.” 

Ron gives what Harry assumes to be a smile, but looks more like the face of constipation. “That’s all you guys did?” he asks, sounding almost hopeful.

Draco and Harry exchange looks at that. Even with such little light, there is no mistaking the pink that colours Draco’s cheeks. 

“Er, and then some,” Harry settles for. For a second, Ron’s smile drops into a grimace before returning.

Harry releases Draco’s hand then, lifting his arm up and over until he has it wrapped securely around Draco’s shoulders. The blush on Draco’s face intensifies, but he doesn’t object. Ron looks strange at the sudden display, but his constipated smile remains, a testament to his determination in being a supportive friend. Hermione, on the other hand, cannot find anywhere to look. Her eyes dart around frantically, focusing anywhere but at Harry.

“Wait,” Ginny interjects. “You guys went to Hogsmeade together?”

From under his arm, Draco squirms. “Well, uh, yes.” Harry isn’t sure there is much else he can say to that.

“Fascinating,” Luna murmurs as she fiddles with her hair. “How fascinating.”

Dean, very much piss drunk, chimes in, “And I went to Hogsmeade with Seamus!”

It results in Seamus loudly declaring the same before the two burst into giggles, taking the attention off of Harry and Draco. Even then, Ginny squints at them in scrutiny still, and Harry has a feeling that George isn’t the only other Weasley he’ll be hearing from soon.

The conversation mellows out after, ranging from topics of school and quidditch. Draco offers his piece every once in a while, commenting whenever asked. He seems particularly passionate about all discussions pertaining quidditch, and it brings a smile to Harry’s face. 

Never in Harry’s life would he have ever imagined a scene like this—sitting in a pub with his friends, Draco Malfoy holding his hand and comfortably settled into his side. It is surreal how Draco proves himself able to seam flawlessly with Harry’s friends. A soft laugh spills from his lips at a joke Ron makes, and Harry simply stares in awe. For the thousandth time this week, Draco is surprising him.

It isn’t just Draco either, but Harry’s friends too. Once the initial shock wears off, Ginny jumps into the conversation easily. She asks Draco about his thoughts on the Chudley Cannons’ prospects next season, leading to the two teaming up against Ron and his defenses of the terrible team. Draco nearly chokes on his drink when Ron suggests making a bet on it. Ginny teases saying Malfoy doesn’t need any more money than he already has.

Harry picks up his glass in toast to that, only to find that it is empty. “Oh, I’ll go get us some more butterbeer.”

“I’ll go with you,” Draco says immediately.

Harry reaches the counter first, relaying an order for another round of butterbeers. Draco is close behind, and takes his place to Harry’s left. There is a lovely flush that has developed on his face from drinking, colouring not only his cheeks but the tip of his nose as well. Paired with the high collar of his turtleneck, one would think he has just come out of winter. When Harry wraps an arm around Draco’s waist, the blond opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by Madam Rosmerta’s return.

She sees Harry reach for his money, but shakes her head. “No need, this round’s on the house for Malfoy,” she tells him.

“Why, thank you.” Draco beams at her and Rosmerta gives a little wink before sauntering off to attend to another patron.

Harry curls his hand tighter around Draco’s hip. “On the house?”

“I helped her out with some things after the war,” Draco explains. He looks up at Harry, grey eyes shining. “It was as reparation for what I had done.”

Impossibly so, Harry thinks he has just fallen a tiny bit more for this man.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, grin creeping onto his face.

Draco scoffs, shifting to turn in towards Harry. “Excuse me?”

“You have no idea how much you drive me mad.”

Draco makes a sullen face at that. “Well, I was not aware that was such the case seeing as you’ve practically been hanging off of me this entire night which, by the way—”

His words are abruptly cut off when Harry kisses him, concluding whatever tirade he had prepared. Harry smiles into the kiss, tilting his head downwards to better angle himself against Draco’s mouth. Draco’s mouth, soft and pliant, opens to him without difficulty, allowing him to slip into the sweet warmth of his mouth.

It ends as soon as it has started, Draco pushing Harry away and heaving. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.” Harry leans down to resume, but Draco stops him once again.

Draco’s fists, pale and bony, rest on his chest. “There are people around.” He doesn’t speak with much conviction.

“I don’t care,” Harry tells him. “Do you?”

“I thought you cared.” It isn’t an answer, but it also isn’t a yes.

Harry shakes his head and adjusts his hands to hold both sides of Draco’s hips. “No, not at all. Besides, I like being watched, don’t I?”

Draco smiles and leans up to kiss Harry, lips tentative before Harry pulls him in close to deepen the kiss. Draco’s hands move from Harry’s chest upwards, tangling into Harry’s hair and guiding his head into the perfect angle. It feels so good and lovely, as Draco always does, filling Harry’s insides with warmth and setting his nerves ablaze. He licks against Draco’s tongue, savouring the creamy-sweet after taste of butterbeer.

Then, Harry feels someone tapping on his shoulder, causing him to regretfully pull away from Draco’s addicting mouth. Even after the kiss has ended, Draco still stands there with his eyes closed and brows drawn together, looking disoriented. Harry has to pause to drink in the sight of Draco, still so handsome with his lips still puckered and waiting for Harry’s return.

Over Harry’s shoulder, he hears someone clear their throat. He turns to the source and sees Ron standing there, face blotchy and red.

“Erm, sorry to interrupt.” Ron scratches at his neck, eyes darting between Harry and Draco. “But uh… the drinks, mate?”

Suddenly, Harry remembers why he had gotten up in the first place. He looks over at his table of friends and sees them all staring at him with wide eyes. Even Seamus and Dean have sobered up enough to be gaping at Harry.

Harry faces Ron again and gestures to the drinks still sitting on the counter. “Go ahead. I’m heading back to the castle.” He doesn’t think he can stand to sit for everyone’s questions if he headed back to the table now.

“ _ We’re _ going back to the castle,” Draco affirms.

__

Draco’s face is unreadable as they make their way back to the castle. It is dark outside now, the last rays of the sun spilling over the canopy of the silhouetted forest and providing them minimal light along the dirt path. They do not speak, any words staying lodged within Harry’s throat. As the weather turns cooler with the night, Draco casts a warming charm over the both of them, and Harry feels it deep within him as well.

It feels different, just as it had the day before in the showers. Harry makes his way up to the eighth year dormitories with heavy steps, footsteps echoing in the hush that blankets the castle’s stone walls. Draco stays by him, close enough to feel but not to touch. By the time they reach his room, his heart is thudding in his chest, blood thrumming in his veins and pulse shaking him.

“Are you going to invite me in?” Draco speaks first, an almost shy smile on his face as he tilts his head towards Harry’s unopened door. His voice tries for teasing, but Harry can sense the anxiety under his words.

With a nod, Harry takes Draco’s hand and pushes the door open, leading him into his room. There are no words to describe the nervous energy that fills up the room, taking space and wedging itself between them. Fearful of breaking this unnamed tension between them, Harry still doesn’t speak. He leads Draco over to his where his bed rests, tucked against the far corner and blessedly clean for once.

It’s  _ different _ . This time, Harry is sure that Draco feels it too.

They have been shagging nonstop all week, but this is his bed now. Beds are where…  _ Normal people _ shag. People who are in a relationship with each other, people who don’t start out with the shagging before the feelings. This whirlwind of a relationship with Draco has been anything but ordinary, and Harry thinks that will always be the case when it concerns the two of them.

Harry tugs off his shirt, letting the material fall to the floor before reaching for the button of his jeans. He stops when Draco reaches out, gingerly pulling Harry’s hands away to undo Harry’s jeans himself. Harry swallows around that lump in his throat, still wedged in deep, when Draco makes his descent to the carpeted floor. He drags the denim along with Harry’s pants down his legs, fully exposing him to the chill air of the room. Harry helps along, lifting his legs to properly rid himself of his socks and shoes as well.

Down on his knees, Draco looks up at Harry through pale lashes and a small smile forms on his face. Harry cannot help himself when he runs a hand through Draco’s hair, so soft and fine in his hands. He runs his fingers against the delicate slope of Draco’s cheekbone in reverie, marveling in the beauty knelt before him. Draco’s lips, shiny and slick under the soft candlelight, conforms to the press of Harry’s thumb against them when he brushes over their soft plumpness.

Slowly, Draco makes his way back up, hands sweeping up the naked flesh of Harry’s sides as he kisses at Harry’s abdomen and up. He pauses to swipe his tongue out at a carob-coloured nipple, lavishing the little nub with affection. Harry shivers at the sensation of Draco’s mouth closed around him, sucking and adding to his growing arousal. Draco pulls off to continue his way up, trailing his lips along Harry’s neck and jaw, soft lips gentle in their caress of the sensitive skin there.

No longer able to wait, Harry tilts his head, capturing Draco’s lips into a kiss just as he presses his lips to Harry’s chin. They move at an unhurried pace, Harry taking his time in savouring just the feel of Draco’s lips against his own. That saccharine taste of butterbeer on him has mixed with his usual taste, and Harry eagerly licks into it, lapping up the blend of spices and sugar.

Draco pushes Harry towards the bed, breaking the kiss. Harry falls back onto his mattress with a bounce before settling back. His cock is half hard now, standing to attention and clearly interested in anything Draco will do. Harry takes himself into his hand, stroking himself with a measured pace as Draco proceeds to take off his shirt.

Harry feels the air leave his lungs when that beautiful, pale skin is exposed. His eyes roam over the scars, giving an almost silvery shine in the light that only adds to Draco’s already ethereal appearance. He removes his boots next, carefully placing them by Harry’s trunk along with his folded turtleneck. All that is left now are Draco’s skirt and knickers.

Draco pauses, hands hovering over the garter. “Skirt?”

Harry licks his lips, finally speaking, “Take it off.”

Draco follows instructions, never breaking eye contact with Harry as he slips off the black skirt. He straightens once again, now clad only in his powder blue knickers. Harry eyes the evident arousal under them, his pulse picking up just a fraction more.

“Take all of it off.”

Once again, Draco obeys. He slides the lacy fabric down his long legs in a leisurely fashion, letting Harry follow the movement of it as he completely takes it off. The knickers join the pile of folded clothes on Harry’s trunk, leaving Draco to stand fully nude before Harry. His cock juts out from him, the crown reddened and leaking precome from the slit.

Harry beckons Draco over to him with a simple gesture, curling his fingers in a hitherto motion. Within seconds, Draco is crawling over Harry’s body and their lips meet in another kiss. His body, so slim and slender, is wonderfully warm against Harry’s own, an after effect of his earlier cast charm. Harry moans into Draco’s mouth when their lengths brush against each other, sending sparks of desire throughout his body.

Gently, Harry rolls the both of them over, switching their places so that Draco is beneath him now. He settles himself between Draco’s legs, and for a moment, all Harry can do is stare. There will never be a time when Harry is not awed by Draco’s beauty. Draco is creamy skin and lithe frame, elegance and grace sewn into his very being. Harry wants to worship this body, to shower Draco with affection and praise. This is a man who deserves to be venerated as one who has been through so much, and yet still holds so much beauty to him.

Harry’s stomach clenches as he continues to look on. Draco’s grey eyes have never been clearer, brighter. His hair is in a halo around him, spread against Harry’s maroon sheets in an angelic way. Harry brushes aside Draco’s bangs with a delicate hand before leaning down to kiss Draco’s lips in a chaste manner. He mirrors Draco’s earlier actions, moving to kiss along his jaw and neck. He sucks love bites into the ridge of Draco’s collarbone, decorating the area with purple-red marks. Harry feels Draco’s fingers card through his hair, massaging his scalp in his hold as he sighs at the feel of Harry’s lips against his skin.

Harry then lowers his mouth to Draco’s pert nipples, already tightened little buds. He runs the flat of his tongue over the pink nubs, and Draco hums in encouragement, his hold on Harry’s head firming just slightly. Harry smiles against his skin and continues to lave his nipples with attention. With one hand holding onto Draco’s side, he reaches down with the other, skating across the fine hairs on Draco’s thigh to pet the soft underside.

His hand dips lower, making Draco shiver against Harry’s body as the hand reaches the cleft of his arse. Harry murmurs the spell to lubricate his fingers before circling the rim with the tip of his finger, tracing around the wrinkled skin. He feels the muscle relax under his massaging, giving way as he slowly pushes in. He is still slightly slick from when Harry had fingered him earlier, and that thought shoots straight to his groin.

Draco relaxes at Harry’s touch, allowing Harry to move his finger freely, dragging the thick digit in and out of Draco’s hole. He moves to kiss along a scar line, tracing the mottled skin to the other end of it and biting. Draco cries out softly, and Harry immediately stills his movements, both his mouth and finger.

“Okay, darling?” he asks, voice rough.

Draco nods and gives Harry’s hair a light tug. “Do that again.”

Harry obliges, continuing the movement of his finger and now pushing against Draco’s rim to stretch him out. He runs his lips against another scar line, this time tracing upwards before biting into the skin and sucking. Draco shudders, body trembling with desire. Harry repeats the action with more scars, licking a stripe along the ridges of the scarred skin and sinking his teeth into the flesh of Draco’s chest. He has another finger in Draco now, moving in and out in scissoring motions.

He pulls away to inspect his work, something akin to possessiveness flaring in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his marks dotting along Draco’s chest, adding to the white lines already there. The scars and bruises combined create an intricate artwork of Harry’s doing, his own signature to signal that Draco is his and only his.

The hands on Harry’s head pull him back down for another kiss, which he easily sinks into, parting his mouth for Draco’s perusal. Merlin, Draco tastes so fucking perfect. The butterbeer had done nothing for Harry, but this taste has Harry feeling intoxicated. He fumbles in inserting a third finger into Draco, swallowing the soft groan that comes from the blond man as he stretches him wide. He pumps his fingers in and out, curling against the upper walls of Draco’s channel, combing the area there until the pads of his fingers feel along the bundle of nerves within Draco. Draco jerks from beneath him at each barely there touch against his prostate.

Draco breaks the kiss to say, “I’m ready, Harry.”

Harry nods, unable to speak when in the face of that intense grey stare. Slowly, he retracts his fingers, slipping out of Draco’s grip. He then shifts himself, resettling his hips between Malfoy’s thighs. He grabs ahold of himself, hissing lightly at the contact of his slick hand on his cock. After slathering more lube over himself, he maneuvers himself lower, all the way until the head of his cock is pressing against Draco’s gaping hole, seeking entrance. His eyes flick back up to Draco’s face, taking in his sharp yet soft and gorgeous features before pushing in.

Harry watches with rapt attention as Draco’s expression transforms, eyes widening as he is stretched further by Harry’s girth, mouth forming in an  _ o _ to release the drawn out moan that escapes him. Harry continues to push in, feeling Draco’s hole greedily take him in, walls enclosing around his hard cock. Finally, he is fully seated, and Draco looks half-out of it already. His grey eyes are unfocused as he chews on his full bottom lip, already reddened. Harry is panting heavily, chest heaving as he struggles to keep still within him.

“Move,” Draco commands.

Harry draws his hips back, relinquishing himself of Draco’s grip before slamming his cock back in. Draco yelps at the force, fingernails scratching against Harry’s arms in an attempt to grab at him. Harry continues the slow pump of his hips, pulling out at a near-sluggish pace before thrusting harshly back into Draco.

“Yes, fuck,” Draco hisses, taking it all so well. His hips cant up to meet with the force of Harry’s hips, bringing Harry in deeper.

Harry keeps eye contact with Draco, knowing in his heart that he wants this, not just for now. He picks up his pace, no longer able to go so slowly. He grunts with effort when their hips meet again, and he knows he has found Draco’s sweet spot when the man lets out a choked cry, legs drawing up and wrapping around Harry’s waist to keep him there.

Through gritted teeth, Draco praises, “Feels so good, fuck, Harry.” He squeezes at Harry’s biceps in urgency. “Come on, please, faster!”

Harry clenches tight into his sheets as he pushes himself to go even faster, to thrust even harder. The bed creaks with each movement, violently rocking along with their bodies. Harry is so lost in the slippery, velvet grip of Draco around him that he barely registers the feel of Draco’s hands, dragging down his biceps and forearms until they reach his hands. With a tug, Draco frees Harry’s hands from the bed sheets to interlace their fingers and bring Harry’s hands above his head. Harry holds on tightly, absolutely loving the sight of Draco beneath him, looking up at him with so much emotion that Harry cannot name.

“T-tell me how it—Tell me how I feel,” Draco chokes out, breaking off into a moan at yet another sharp drive of Harry’s hips.

Harry struggles to think clearly, tongue feeling heavy when he speaks, “You feel amazing.” Draco’s cock rubs against his stomach now, slicking his stomach with precome. “So amazing and perfect, darling.”

Draco wails as Harry draws close to simply grind his cock against Draco’s prostate, pushing up into the bundle of nerves. He rotates his hips, moving in circular motions within Draco’s heat. He feels Draco clench around him, tight and unrelenting even as he pulls himself out to thrust back in sharply. Draco tightens his hold on Harry’s hands, eyes glazed in a haze of ecstasy as Harry continues to pound away into him.

Then, Draco is coming, muscles spasming around Harry and drawing his own orgasm out. He spills onto Harry’s chest, white liquid coming out in spurts as his body convulses. Harry comes after him with a shout, cock pulsing hot semen into Draco. Draco digs his heels into the small of Harry’s back, but Harry cannot even feel the pain as he is overwhelmed by the pleasure that wracks his body. It starts deep within his groin before spreading all throughout him, reaching all the way up to his throat.

Finally, their orgasm subsides, leaving them to dwindle in a fog of satisfaction. All Harry can do is stay there, still locked in the most intimate embrace with Draco. He stays until his cock softens, pulling himself out of Draco and squeezing his eyes shut at the wet noise it makes. He rolls over onto Draco’s side, releasing the blond’s hands. Harry’s shoulders are aching with the strain of holding himself up, but after a few more moments, the aching subsides into a dull soreness. It is quiet in the room save for the sound of their heavy breathing.

“Harry… What are we doing?” Draco’s voice sounds especially loud in the quietude of the room. Harry turns to look at him, who is looking at Harry with furrowed brows, lips pursed and looking as though he is trying to consider something.

Harry licks his lips. “Well, we just had sex and we’re resting now.”

As expected, Draco rolls his eyes. He then shifts onto his side, facing Harry and placing a hand over his chest to rest on it. “I know that, you idiot,” Draco murmurs. “But… What is this? What are we?”

Harry swallows and grabs Draco’s hand, simply clutching it. “What do you want to be?”

“I asked you first,” Draco replies, challenging.

Harry stares and basks in the absolute beauty that is Draco Malfoy after sex, skin tinged pink and grey eyes so startlingly clear. He brings Draco’s hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to his palm, just where his calluses lie.

“I want to fall in love with you,” he confesses against Draco’s palm. Draco’s eyes widen and his lips part, but Harry doesn’t let him speak. “I want to continue shagging you in ridiculous places, but I also want to shag you on a bed. Like normal people.”

Harry swallows against the lump in his throat, finally getting it to unwedge itself. “I want to be able to kiss you in public, to mark you up and let everyone know that you’re mine and that I’m yours. I want to be allowed to fall in love with you and have you fall for me too. I want to be so in love with you that it gives Ron a stomach ache. I want this to be forever.”

“Oh,” Draco mumbles. Harry is nervous now, his pulse having picked up once again from his little speech. Draco takes a deep breath. “You’re in love with me?”

“No,” Harry admits, “not yet.”

Draco sucks in a breath. “You’re mad.”

“You drive me mad,” Harry replies, trying for what he hopes to be a comforting smile. When Draco only stares at him, unblinking, doubt begins to creep into Harry. “What do  _ you _ want?”

“I want,” Draco starts, rotating his wrist to hold onto Harry’s hand properly, their fingers interlacing once again. “I want to continue shagging you wherever, to indulge you and your bloody weird kinks.”

He grins at Harry, pearly whites now on display, before continuing on, “I want to dress up in pretty knickers for you. I want to make everyone jealous because I have you on my arm. I want to show off the marks you put on me, because I am yours and you are mine. “

Harry’s breath hitches at that, and Draco shifts closer, his face now mere inches away. “But above all, I want to fall in love with you too, Harry Potter.” He barely needs to lean any further before his lips are pressing against Harry’s, insistent and full of promise.

Harry smiles into the kiss, reminded of the feeling of when he first flew on a broom. His heart soars in his chest, catching wind and barrelling in delight at the reciprocation of his feelings. It’s perfect, so wonderfully perfect as Draco hooks his leg over Harry’s hip and straddles him.

“How long do you think we have until your roommates come back?” Draco breathes against his lips, grin still firmly in place.

“Not long, I’m afraid,” Harry answers. The curtains then close around them along with a silencing spell that settles into the space. Harry wiggles his free hand in front of Draco, matching his grin now.

“Wandless magic,” Draco says, impressed, as though he hasn’t witnessed it before.

Harry smirks. “I try.”

Draco shakes his head, blond hair falling into his eyes as he says, “I cannot wait to fall in love with you.” He kisses Harry again, drowning him in a sea of cinnamon and vanilla.

Harry can’t help but feel as though he is already halfway there himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes! they finally confessed! i had so much fun writing the last scene of this chapter which i owe the feel of it entirely to hayley kiyoko's expectations overture. next chapter is meant to be an epilogue to this whole thing. i've had a few people asking for a chapter in draco's pov so maybe... who knows. haha just kidding... unless...?
> 
> anyways thank you guys again so much for waiting and commenting such kind things. only one more chapter left!


	7. Sunday - June 21, 2004

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... hi.
> 
> okay i dont really have any excuses aside from being busy with college and struggling with some anxiety BUT, i finally managed to finish and here it is: the final product. if it wasn't for your guys' wonderful comments, i really would have never finished this. this fic started out as a small one shot of harry and draco in the common room but then developed into a little something more which turned into this monstrosity of a fic.
> 
> anyways, what i'm trying to say is that i had no idea it would reach this scale or that so many people would enjoy this very self-indulgent story and my writing so thank you again so much for all the support and the PATIENCE because good god have i been unkind in my posting schedule to you all lol
> 
> okay end of rambling. i had several requests for a chapter in draco's pov so... i hope you guys enjoy!

Draco wakes up from the daylight shining in his eyes, the sun’s rays infiltrating the humble bedchamber and bathing the bed in a champagne glow. He rolls over to block out the brightness, body coming into contact with cool sheets and the faint smell of sandalwood. Draco allows himself to inhale the familiar scent before finally, slowly stretching his limbs out. The muscles of his thighs burn pleasantly in the stretch, a physical reminder of last night’s activities. Harry had held his thighs so far apart that he was sure he would end up with a pulled muscle by the end of the night.

Once his limbs feel loose enough, Draco sits up in bed, letting the sheets pool at his hips and exposing his skin to the cool air of the room. His glasses, gold-rimmed and nearly cat-eye in shape if not for the thinness of the frames, are sitting on the nightstand by his side, ready to be picked up and used. He picks up the folded parchment on the nightstand as well, unfolding it to go over his speech for tonight’s ceremony again.

Today is the last day of their apprenticeship at Hogwarts, and tonight is their graduation ceremony. Never in Draco’s life had he ever expected to be going back to Hogwarts after initially graduating, much more to be teaching at the school, but Harry has a funny way of getting Draco to do the things he never would have expected to do. When Draco thinks on it, teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been the natural conclusion for Harry. Becoming an Auror never really was his dream, no matter what others tried to insist. Draco knew him better than that, and had been insistent that he pursue what he really wants. Only then, once Harry had accepted it, did he suggest that Draco teach Potions.

That had taken much more convincing than anything else. Teaching was never something Draco considered in terms of his future career, but it appeared to be his only choice after the effects of the war. There would be no chance for him in the Ministry, and he never truly wanted to work there anyways. And so he chose teaching, attending Draper’s Institute for Bright Young Witches and Wizards along with Harry. There, they had dormed together along with Neville Longbottom, having also been accepted into the Institute’s teaching program. After three years of studying, the three of them were accepted into Hogwarts’ apprenticeship program, learning under the tutelage of the professors in their choice of field.

After two years of apprenticing under Slughorn, Draco is now ready to graduate and move on to truly living his life, with Harry right by his side. The ceremony will be taking place later tonight in the Great Hall, a simple affair to be celebrated with the staff of Hogwarts and the families and friends of the apprentices. Each apprentice is meant to give a speech of acknowledgement upon receiving their medal of certification. It has been at the forefront of Draco’s mind this past month, making it a habit to recite his speech whenever possible.

As he goes over his speech, he can hear Harry’s humming from the loo, audible even over the sound of the shower running. He shakes his head with fondness when he hears Harry break into an off-key rendition of The Weird Sisters’ latest single, wondering how he was ever attracted to the idiot in the first place.

Many had wondered the same thing back in eighth year when they first revealed their relationship, the speculation going as far as the press. Rita Skeeter had written a rather unsavoury piece on Draco, questioning his motives and the sincerity of his feelings towards the wizarding world’s beloved Golden Boy. It had not been the easiest environment to cultivate a new relationship in, but they managed. McGonagall had been particularly helpful with fending off the press towards the end of their school year. Draco traces the slopes of ink that make up her name on the parchment in his hand, her being one of the people he thanks in his speech.

There is a creak from the bathroom, the tell-tale noise of the shower being shut off. Brief shuffling is heard from the ensuite before Harry steps out, clad only in a white towel that hangs low on his hips. Draco takes off his reading glasses to get a proper look at him, getting an eyeful of that rich, sepia-brown skin, stretched over toned muscles. It is unfair how easily Harry seems to be able to build muscle, the git going from fit to _ridiculously fit_ after only a few months of playing regular pick-up quidditch games. Draco has not been so lucky, instead keeping his usual slim form, albeit with a bit of a softer middle now. He blames it entirely on all those seconds and thirds that Mrs. Weasley insists that he eat when they visit the Burrow.

Draco shuts his eyes tight, blocking his view of the Adonis-incarnate before him. “I cannot be looking at you right now, I need to focus on my speech.” Harry chuckles at that, a deep rumbling noise that reverberates through Draco’s chest.

“I’m sure you have you have your speech memorized like the palm of my hand,” Harry retorts.

 _You’re meant to say_ my _hand,_ Draco wants to correct him. He refrains from doing so, knowing that Harry will have some cheeky response prepared. Likely something about Draco’s arse being very well-acquainted with the palm of his hand.

Instead, Draco says, “Well, you could use some time to focus on your own speech.”

“I’d rather focus on something else right now.” Harry’s voice sounds closer, and Draco’s suspicions are confirmed when he feels the bed dip beside him.

Draco opens his eyes, breath catching in his throat when he sees that Harry is mere inches away now. His green eyes are bright and his smile even brighter, dazzling under the morning light. There is a dusting of umber freckles along the apples of his cheeks that are mirrored on his shoulders, a result of the fresh summer sun that has done nothing but plague Draco’s pale skin in comparison.

“Hello,” Draco greets him, voice barely a whisper. Harry is always beautiful, but there is something about him in natural light that makes him breathtaking.

“Good morning, handsome,” Harry replies in kind. At those words, Draco cannot help the smile that forms on his face before Harry leans in, eyes closed.

Draco gets one last look at the fine specimen that is his boyfriend before he feels the press of lips against his own, his eyes fluttering shut. The dance of Cornish pixies in his gut intensifies as Harry grins into the kiss, making Draco sigh in contentment. Harry’s hair is still damp, droplets of water splattering onto Draco’s face when he reaches up to run a hand through the wet mess that is Harry’s hair.

Without breaking the kiss, Draco sinks back into the bed, Harry following after him. He smells of his sandalwood scented soap and aftershave, the scent warm and heavy. Draco licks into his mouth, savouring the taste. Every kiss, since their first, has felt like this—pure euphoria. Harry had not known it then, but Draco was already infatuated with him long before their fateful encounter in the common room that Monday night. Otherwise, Draco would have never succumbed so easily to Harry’s bumbling charms. At least, not as quickly as he had done so that week.

That first kiss had been bliss. Harry’s hands, holding tightly onto his hips, arousal evident as Draco settled into his lap. Draco’s own vice-like grip, fingers wrapped around Harry’s arms in an attempt to tether himself to reality. The actuality of being with Harry Potter had been nothing but a dream then. Now, it is Draco’s life, and he is reminded with every kiss received.

Harry’s lips, chapped now that they have lost the initial moisture from his earlier shower, move to kiss at Draco’s jaw. The sigh that leaves Draco’s lips is entirely involuntary, almost summoned from him by the light peppering of kisses along his skin. The kisses travel southward, lips skating along the pale of Draco’s neck and stopping just at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. There, Harry places a wet kiss before sucking hard. The beginnings of a love bite take form, and Harry presses his lips to it.

Draco hums, running his free hand down Harry’s bare back, loving the way the muscles ripple under his touch. “You just showered.”

“You still need to shower. I could always join you,” Harry reasons, giving a playful bite to Draco’s shoulder.

“I suppose.” Draco tries for an unaffected tone of voice, but he knows Harry sees right through him.

Harry sits up then, slipping away from Draco’s embrace to kneel on the bed. Draco watches as Harry’s hands reach for the knot of his towel, barely giving a tug before the white cloth gives way to him, leaving himself completely nude. Whatever reprimand Draco has prepared for the careless way Harry discards the towel dies in his throat at the sight of Harry’s cock, hanging heavily between sculpted thighs. Instinctively, Draco draws his legs together in a futile attempt to counter the sudden warmth that pools to his stomach. He _thinks_ he hates how gorgeous his boyfriend is, but he _knows_ he absolutely loves it.

With a grin, Harry grabs ahold of the covers and pulls, slowly sliding the thin material off of Draco’s body and leaving him exposed as well. Even with the cooling charms put in place, sharing a bed with another warm body is stifling, and Draco has forgone his usual pyjamas for the past month because of this. Then, Harry’s hands are back on him, touch searing as his fingers glide along the now fully exposed milky skin. He makes his way back up to Draco’s chest, dipping his head to press his lips to the end of one scar.

In the beginning, it had been difficult for Draco to understand Harry’s obsession with marking his scars. Regardless, he indulged, allowing Harry to paint him in love and adoration in the form of licks and kisses along marred flesh. Draco thought it might have been out of guilt, and he supposes that initially it had been fueled by remorse. However, the infatuated way Harry pores over each mark in reverie never seems to be a form of penitence.

It was during a particularly cold winter night, the first winter they ever spent together, that Draco finally struck up the courage to ask about it. They had chosen to spend winter break together at the Burrow rather than stay at Draper’s Institute. Despite the freezing temperature, the two lay together in bed naked, having just spent the last hour warming each other up.

A blanket of quiet rolled all throughout the house, the loudest noise in their room being the shuffle of sheets against bare legs. They weren’t meant to have a room to themselves—even if they were eighteen then, Mrs. Weasley had rules. But Ron had insisted that they take Charlie’s room as at the time, the older Weasley was stuck in Romania handling a particularly difficult dragon that only ever hatched during the cold season. Draco and Harry made sure not to abuse the privilege by always casting the appropriate locking and silencing charms.

There, lying together with their limbs tangled beneath the sheets, did Draco ask about his obsession with marking him. Harry had smiled, green eyes shining in the dim light, before answering with: _Because they mean you’re mine._ Draco said I love you to him for the first time that night, only to have the words returned in kind before Harry showered his scars with reverence just as he does so now.

There is something so beautiful in the way Harry utterly worships Draco’s body, evident in the careful way he runs the flat of his tongue up white mottled skin. He reaches one of Draco’s nipples, circling the pink nub before latching his mouth on. Draco moans, hands flying up to cup at the nape of Harry’s neck. He registers the feel of Harry’s hand too late, his hips jerking in surprise when searching fingers come into contact with his rim. Draco is half hard now, and it takes all of his power to focus on keeping lucid rather than just losing himself in the sensation of Harry.

Draco feels a thick digit push in, and Harry whistles against the damp, sensitive skin of his nipple. “You’re still wet from last night.”

Struggling to contain his sounds, Draco merely bites down onto his lip, unable to give a coherent response to that. Harry continues to press on, adding a slick second finger and crooking his fingers up against Draco’s inner walls. Draco arches his back into the touch, already panting. Thick fingers stretch at his rim with each inward slide, widening slightly each time they pull out. Briefly, he feels the tips of Harry’s fingers brush against his prostate, and his hips jerk against his own volition. He is fully hard now, and he isn’t sure how much longer he will last for if Harry continues that.

“Wait,” Draco mumbles, the effort to find his voice labouring. Harry stills immediately, two fingers still pressed deep within his arse. Draco lets out a shaky breath, clenching around the digits in a way that makes Harry groan. “I want you behind me.”

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” Harry agrees immediately, slowly withdrawing his fingers from Draco.

Harry only needs to give a nudge to his hip before Draco is rolling over, the two moving in synchronicity as Harry positions himself behind Draco. Draco presses his face into the pillow, lifting his hips and presenting his arse to Harry. He feels Harry’s hands on him, squeezing his arse and spreading his cheeks in a way that makes Draco warm all over. Even after so many years of being together, Draco still feels embarrassment over Harry’s blatant laudation.

“Your arse is just too nice.” Harry emphasizes his statement with a small smack against Draco’s arse followed by a squeeze.

Draco lets out a laugh. “Too nice? You are _such_ a charmer.”

Harry snorts and Draco can hear the familiar noise of Harry slicking himself up. In his anticipation, Draco further arches his back, hoping that his arse is as enticing as he thinks it to be.

“My apologies, your highness,” Harry mutters. The head of his cock rubs against Draco’s rim, teasing. Draco shudders, thighs trembling at the feel of Harry’s thick cock now sliding between his cheeks, spreading the lube around. “Your arse is delightful, heavenly, exquisite, bewitching.”

Draco takes a deep breath, doing his utmost best to stop himself from outright begging Harry to just put the damn thing in. “Oh, been reading a thesaurus have you?”

Harry laughs, the wonderful sound filling the room. “Your arse is just _pulchritudinous_.”

Finally, he slides in and Draco’s quip dies in his throat, replaced by a whine as he is stretched even further by the girth and length of Harry’s cock. He widens his legs in vain to lessen the stretch, feeling the burn regardless of how he positions himself. Harry’s hands stay placed firmly on his back, keeping his upper body pinned down as Harry continues his measured pace. Just before his hips meet Draco’s arse, Harry pulls out before sliding back in with a groan.

“Would you like me to continue on about how beauteous this booty is?” Harry jokes, not stopping in the languid thrust of his hips.

Draco sputters out a laugh. “You’re ruining the mood.”

“What? You don’t want to hear about how smashing your arse is?” Harry teases, smirk evident in his voice. Harry’s pace remains undemanding, not at all what Draco needs right now. He wants it fast and hard, to have Harry fuck him into the mattress.

Frustrated, Draco shoots back, “I’d rather you be smashing my arse instead.”

Rather than pick up the pace, Harry stops completely, pausing to stifle a laugh into Draco’s neck. “Oh, now that one was just horrible.”

“Just fuck me, will you?” Draco huffs. When Harry only continues to laugh, Draco pushes up against Harry’s cock, grinding his hips back into Harry’s own. Harry moans, the noise nearly lost into Draco’s skin.

“So pushy,” he mumbles.

Draco lets out a gasp as Harry pushes his torso down again, pressing Draco’s upper body to the mattress with strong hands. Finally, he picks up the pace, fucking into Draco from behind with fervency. It is impossible for Draco to contain his moans at the feel of Harry sliding in and out of him, hips slamming against his own and filling the room with sounds of skin against skin. Beneath them, the bed creaks, swaying in time with each of Harry’s thrusts.

“Is this good, your highness?” Harry punctuates his words with a slam of his hips. His fingers are bruising against the pale flesh of Draco’s back, dancing between the fine line of pleasure and pain.

“Nnggh,” is all that Draco can say in response, near drooling with his face pressed against the mattress.

It feels wonderful, Harry so close to him, inside of him. Draco knows this sort of intimacy that he has found with Harry could never be replicated. No one else could have him so readily on his stomach, hips canted up to take each and every push of Harry’s cock. But he needs more, more of Harry near him. He whines and twitches, fingers grasping at the sheets, doing his best to communicate to Harry what he wants.

“Mm, fuck,” Draco gasps, hips shifting for any sort of friction against his prick. “H-Harry, hands—“

It appears that Harry understands his broken request, as soon enough Draco feels Harry’s hands reaching for his own, fingers interlacing together. With his left, Harry directs Draco’s hand to his own neglected cock, their connected hands sliding over Draco’s length. It isn’t much longer before Draco is coming, a sharp cry tumbling from his lips as his and Harry’s hand squeezes over his cock. He is nearly blinded with pleasure as he spills out beneath him, staining the sheets dark. Pleasure pulses throughout his body, racing up his spine, amplified as Harry continues to move in and out of him with vigour.

Harry comes soon after, moaning into Draco’s ear as he spurts come into Draco’s arse, not bothering to pull out. Draco feels every movement, every twitch of Harry’s cock within him as he spills his seed into him. It is absolutely filthy how much Draco loves that, yearns for the feel of Harry finishing within him. It is a mix of possession and pride as he takes the warmth of Harry’s orgasm, stomach fluttering even after he has reached his own climax.

For a moment, neither of them move, Harry enveloping Draco in a sweaty embrace, still buried deep within Draco. After a few minutes, Harry finally peels himself off of Draco, muttering nonsense under his breath as he pulls out of Draco’s heat. Draco winces at the feel of Harry’s softened cock, slowly sliding out of him and leaving him gaping and full of the evidence of his finish.

He feels Harry collapse beside him onto the bed, his weight creating a depression that shifts Draco closer to him. Draco turns to face him, lips lifting into a smile at the way Harry looks at him, green eyes bright and focused. Over the years, Draco has come to realize that Harry never focuses on anything so intensely as he does Draco, and the thought warms him.

“Has anyone ever told you how sexy you look when you’re sweaty?” Harry asks in an overtly saccharine tone, throwing in a little wink for good measure.

Draco rolls his eyes, reaching out to trace the curve of Harry’s arm. Harry’s body reminds Draco of those old statues, the ones of gods and warriors. Last summer, Harry had taken Draco on a trip to Italy for their fourth anniversary. Draco had been fascinated by the sculptures featured in their museums and churches. For a society of non magical beings, it was a wonder how so many Muggle sculptors managed to create such creations so full of life. The sinewy limbs, chiseled features, and robust figure—Harry was practically a marble statue come to life. Not for the first time in Draco’s life, he wonders what luck he must have to be able to call this stunning man his boyfriend.

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco mumbles. Harry’s hand reaches up to meet his, his palm matching Draco’s own before locking their fingers together. A perfect fit.

With measured care, Harry pushes him back, rolling himself on top of Draco and kissing him. Draco melts, his grip on Harry’s hand slackening. Once again, he allows Harry to take charge, legs parting to give way to Harry’s hips. This kiss is tender and sweet, tongues sweeping over each other in a gentle caress. When they break apart, Harry merely rests his forehead against Draco’s, their breaths mingling together.

“We absolutely cannot have sex again,” Draco warns in a soft tone.

A pout forms on Harry’s face, and Draco is forced to turn his head away lest he fall prey to that very obvious trap. Over the years he has come to learn that Harry is downright irresistible with those wonderfully verdant puppy dog eyes of his. It is what led him to discover just how Slytherin his boyfriend can be at times.

“We absolutely can,” Harry insists, dipping his head to kiss at the mark he had left on Draco’s neck. His lips make a smacking noise against the bruised skin, the sound enticing to Draco’s ears.

“But we just came!” Draco tries to reason. Despite his words, he makes no attempt to stop Harry, even as the man presses more kisses to the sweat-soaked skin of Draco’s neck.

Harry gives a gentle nip, right where Draco’s pulse rests. “Then I’ll suck your cock until you’re hard again.”

Draco certainly hates the way his prick twitches at the thought. “No,” he says in a firm voice. “We need to be getting ready for tonight’s ceremony.”

With a sigh of defeat, Harry hangs his head, dark curls tickling against the skin of Draco’s chest. He smells of sweat now, the scent mingling with his usual sandalwood scent. It reminds Draco of warm afternoons spent out on the quidditch pitch, the two of them laying in the grass after a quick game. Just last week they had been in this same position, Draco on his back and Harry resting against his chest, the both of them soaking up the sun’s rays. Of course, out of the whole ordeal, Harry had gotten the delightful smattering of freckles that Draco loves to kiss and count. Draco, in turn, ended up with a horrific sunburn that left him peeling for two days. The only consolation to the event were the lovely moments Harry spent rubbing ointment into his reddened skin—and other places.

Eventually, Draco manages to convince Harry the importance of showering after a terrific shag. The two end up cramped together, skin-to-skin inside the quaint little excuse of a bathroom that their Hogwarts apprentice’s quarters has provided them. Harry has mentioned to him that when they look for their own place this summer, he wants to get a place with a large bathroom. Preferably, he has stated, one that has both a tub and a showerhead or some sort of mix between. Draco had agreed readily, having grown a sense of loathing for the miniature shower they have been forced to endure for the past two years of their apprenticeship. He only further agreed when Harry explained that a bigger shower would mean better sex, and Draco was not the sort of man to deny his boyfriend the joy of shagging him silly over the side of an opulent tub.

As Draco turns on the tap, he makes Harry promise to him no funny business. This is strictly meant to be a cleaning sort of shower, not the dirty kind that Harry clearly has on his mind from the looks of his crotch. Regretfully, Harry gives him his word. It does not, however, stop him from giving each of Draco’s scars a kiss.

It is a routine he has made for himself whenever they shower together, beginning the practice during the first year they started dating. Always, he ends his little tradition with straying lips against the white-pink scars against Draco’s forearm, never deviating from the order. As usual, Draco indulges him, smiling to himself as he watches Harry press his lips to the ruined Dark Mark, its dark magic having been kissed away years ago.

True to his word, there is no funny business instigated on Harry’s part and soon enough the both of them are clean and well-pruned from the hot water. Drying off is easy enough with a few flicks of Draco’s fingers; wandless magic comes much easier to him now after being able to practice so often with Harry. Draco dresses in his usual fitted trousers but opts for one of Harry’s hoodies instead of his usual robes.

He doesn’t like to admit it openly, but their wardrobes have managed to mix in some way, much to Pansy’s chagrin. She despises Draco’s love for Harry’s Weasley jumpers and Muggle hoodies, more than she does Draco’s recent obsession with Muggle jeans. Draco cannot bring himself to care much, especially when he turns to see the pleased look on Harry’s face at the sight of the worn maroon fabric.

By the time they have finished dressing, Harry takes a look at the clock positioned over the doorway. “Er, we had a rather late morning.”

Draco looks up as well and lets out a low whistle. The time reads two in the afternoon—a late morning indeed.

He waves his hand in dismissal. “It’s no matter, it’s Sunday after all.” Hogwarts is notorious for its lazy aura during Sundays, both from students and staff alike.

“Well, come on then,” Harry says with a shrug. “My stomach can’t handle being empty for much longer.”

Naturally, the halls are sparse as they make their way down to the Great Hall. It is mostly professors that they encounter. Along the way they see Professor Bautista, who stops them along a corridor to make small talk. In the past couple of years, she has become rather close to Harry, being his mentor in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Draco quite likes her, much more than he does the rest of the Hogwarts staff, at least. She has always been understanding when it came to Draco and Harry’s relationship, and outright supportive. Her kindness to Draco rivals that of McGonagall’s.

Of course, it isn’t as though Draco interacts with many of the other teachers often either. Mostly, he spends his days working under Slughorn which is difficult enough. With any other professors he sticks to polite small talk. All except for Flitwick, who he still cannot look in the eye without feeling some sort of shame over the knowledge he possesses of his and Harry’s relationship. And to think the man will soon be Draco’s colleague, _Merlin._

The few students that pass by the couple merely wave their hellos, a polite gesture as they make their way through the castle’s halls. It is certainly strange for Draco to be at Hogwarts and not be a student, especially when considering his history. The students don’t seem to mind him, though. There has been the occasional student, usually older, that would express disdain at Draco’s employment at the school considering the role he had played during the war. In the beginning, that sort of thing would shake Draco to his core and Harry would always be there for him. Draco recalls a night when it had been particularly bad for him, Harry kissing away his tears and holding him throughout the night, even when the sun had risen well into the sky.

There are no words to ever properly convey the gratitude he has towards Harry and his understanding. As anyone would have expected, they had a lot of troubles in the beginning of their relationship, not even counting the press that had been such a nuisance. Draco knows that he is complicated, and Harry is well aware of his own issues. It had been quite the journey to overcome that and learn to work together rather than against each other. But Draco’s heart swells at the thought of Harry and his care, always so evident in the way he speaks to Draco, the way he touches him, the way he looks at him.

He is snapped out of his thoughts once they come across the heavy doors leading to the Great Hall. Gentle as ever, Harry takes his hand and guides him through the smaller door that he has opened, drawing a smile onto his face. He always seems to be doing that these days; smiling over the littlest of things. Draco figures that it is a side-effect of constantly being around such an incredible being, his own personal patronus charm.

Just like the hallways, there are no more than a handful of people inside the dining hall. Out of the few students littered around, Draco recognizes a Slytherin student eating grapes while idly flipping through a textbook. The student, who Draco remembers has asked to be called Harper, is one that Draco recalls as being rather brilliant in potions. As such, Draco has spent a few minutes of his time discussing potions-related matters with Harper after classes. At the sound of their arrival, Harper looks up from their book and gives Draco a friendly wave accompanied by a smile. Draco returns it, beaming as he and Harry make their way to the staff table.

“Afternoon, fellas,” Neville Longbottom greets them.

He is sitting in his usual seat, right beside Professor Sprout’s chair. In front of him lies a copy of today’s _Prophet_ and a half eaten bowl of porridge. Why the man would eat such a hot meal on a hot day escapes Draco, although he figures he should be used to Neville’s strangeness by now.

During their stay together at Draper’s Institute, the two managed to find friendship with each other. It was bound to happen, what with all the times Neville had seen Draco’s bare bum after walking in on him and Harry one too many times during their first year of schooling. After that, Neville had been strict upon enforcing a schedule for that sort of hanky panky. Somewhere along the way, Draco learned to appreciate Neville’s friendship and vice versa.

“Afternoon, Nev.” Harry takes the seat to Neville’s right, and Draco follows by sitting by Harry. “Anything good in the _Prophet_ for once?”

Neville chuckles. “Of course not.” He leans over to pick up the newspaper and sets it down between Harry and Draco. “There’s a great front page article on Hogwarts’ resident ‘it’ couple, though.”

Draco cranes his neck to get a look at the paper, his eyes rolling before he can even finish reading the headline. The page is titled in large, blocky letters reading: POTTER AND MALFOY’S GRADUATION FROM APPRENTICESHIP. It is a little disappointing that this time there is no pun or spin on words in the title. Draco had quite the laugh when two months ago, the _Prophet_ had been titled with GOLDEN BOY’S GOLDEN PURCHASE after Harry had been caught purchasing a pair of golden snitch-themed vibrators. Harry had not been amused by either the article or Draco’s laughter.

Draco sniffs and slides the paper away. “What a load of rubbish, as though there aren’t any other things to report on. Didn’t Hermione just get a treaty signed between the Faefolk of Scotland and Wales?”

“Preventing a war is not as front page worthy as anything Harry does,” Neville points out with a shake of his head. “Our saviour can’t even buy a sex toy without Rita Skeeter making a mess of things.”

“God, it was one time,” Harry grumbles. “I know better now than to buy those sort of things in person.”

Draco clicks his tongue. “I did tell you that ordering via owl was a much better option.”

Knowing better than to argue, Harry steers the conversation back on track. “Besides, it’s not as if we’re the only ones graduating tonight. There’s also you, Neville. Along with Agatha and Priscilla too.”

Agatha Jelani and Priscilla Driscoll are the only other apprentices in the program. Agatha, the young woman apprenticing under Professor Sinistra for Astronomy, is very short in stature with dark, curly hair that sort of reminds Draco of Hermione. The similarities stop at appearances, however, as Draco is sure he has seen her chugging a bottle of firewhisky every Friday night at the Hog’s Head since the start of their apprenticeship. Priscilla, a tall and willowy young woman with golden hair, is Agatha’s girlfriend and apprentice to Professor Grubbly-Plank of Care of Magical Creatures. Neville had become fast friends with her once she revealed her fascination in the subject of his choice as it relates somewhat to her own field of study.

Neville hums in agreement and takes the paper back, tucking it away under his porridge. The bowl reminds Draco of his need for lunch, the slight grumbling of his stomach serving as further reminder. He serves himself some of the salad on the table as well as a helping of meatloaf. Harry does the same, piling his plate with double the portions. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco notices slices of black olives in the salad. He takes his wand out to levitate each slice onto his own plate before Harry can begin eating, remembering that Harry isn’t fond of the taste. For a moment, Neville simply watches the act, an odd sort of expression on his face. Once Draco finishes his task and begins eating, their conversation resumes.

“Got your speeches of gratitude all ready?” Neville inquires. He fiddles with the corner of his newspaper.

“Draco could probably recite his backwards,” Harry teases, winking at Draco and making his pale skin flush. In private, Draco can barely handle that boyish grin and playful charm, but in public it is damn near impossible.

“I like to be prepared.” Draco drags the tines of his fork against his food, attempting to skewer as many olive slices as possible. “Don’t want to be stumbling over some _er’s_ and _um’s_ like someone I know.”

Harry does not miss the playful dig. “Mm, ‘dunno. That someone you know sounds pretty cool to me.”

Draco scoffs. “I assure you, he is not.”

“Okay, ignoring that weird… Foreplay… Or whatever.” Neville clears his throat. “Are your guys’ families coming for the ceremony?”

Harry finishes off the last of his meatloaf before answering, “Yeah, some of the Weasleys will be here. Ron is a given, of course, along with ‘Mione.”

“My mother and aunt will be coming by,” Draco answers simply, not bothering to go into detail over why his celebration party is so pitifully small.

Neville nods, understanding. “My grandma is going to be here later, it took me a whole week to convince her not to come any earlier. Says she’s just too proud of me, is all.”

Draco remembers Neville’s grandmother. He met the old woman a few times while at Draper’s Institute and mostly recalls the way she had doted on Neville with such love and care. She decided instantly that she liked Draco and Harry as well, crowing over what lovely young men they were. It was safe to say that Draco rather liked her.

The three chatter on idly about different things before finally finishing their meals. Neville flees the scene quickly when he sees red ink explode within his remembrall, yelling something about his leaping toadstools in one of the greenhouses. By now, Draco knows better than to ask questions about Neville and his plants. So he heads out of the Great Hall with Harry, giving the dining hall one last look before shutting the great oaken doors behind them. In only a few hours, the hall will be completely rearranged to accommodate their graduation ceremony, and the thought makes Draco’s stomach flutter with anxiety.

“Hey, you okay?”

Draco turns to face Harry and the concerned look on his face.

“Just thinking about things,” he confesses. “Tonight. The ceremony. How fast our lives seem to be moving.”

Harry steps into his space and presses a soft kiss to his temple. “Hey, it’s like I always say: one step at a time. Sound good?”

Draco nods. Harry had first said that to him in the very beginning, when they first made things official. One step at a time, always together. It was always how Harry managed to calm Draco down from an anxious spell of his.

“I’ve got to speak with McGonagall about something,” Harry confesses. His eyes flit away from Draco’s gaze, a nervous tell of his. “But I’ll be back to our quarters in time for you to nag me on my outfit choice.”

“Don’t forget to—“

“—Come at least an hour before the ceremony. Which starts at six tonight. Yes, I was there for the meeting too, got the notice and everything.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I beg of you not to be late.”

“I like it when you beg,” Harry says with a suggestive grin.

“I’m sure you do.” Draco shakes his head, exasperated by his weakness for this ridiculous man and his ribald comments. “Now go before McGonagall gets upset.”

Harry straightens then, giving a stiff mock salute before leaning in and kissing Draco on the lips. When he tries to pull away, Draco immediately drags him back down by the front of his shirt and kisses him hard. Harry follows easily, lips parting to allow Draco access. It should be gross, considering they have just eaten, but Draco cannot help himself as he eases himself into Harry’s space and licks his way into his mouth. Harry kisses back with fervor, hands coming to rest at Draco’s sides and pulling him even closer.

Finally, Draco pushes away, breathless. “Now you can go.”

He lets Harry walk off towards the opposite end of the corridor with a dreamy sort of expression. Twice, he looks back at Draco, both times with a goofy grin that makes Draco’s stomach do somersaults for days. Once his retreating form disappears, Draco forces himself to move and head back upstairs to their shared quarters.

It is close to four when Draco arrives to their room. In Harry’s absence, he prepares his robes and goes over his speech a dozen more times. He has said it before, but he is determined not to mess up when he goes up on stage. His stomach has become a host to the feeling of nervousness, and it leaves him fidgety. When there is nothing left to do but get dressed, he makes the bed three times and tidies around the room. It doesn’t do much to dissipate any of his anxiety, but it helps with the restlessness in some way.

He shouldn’t be nervous, and yet he is. It isn’t only about his speech now. The truth is that Draco is scared. He doesn’t know what the future holds for him, he never does anymore after the end of the war. It is so different from the way he was brought up, everything already decided for him before his birth. Before Harry, there had been a plan. Draco was meant to follow in his father’s footsteps and become his own man of the house, becoming the new patriarch of the Malfoy family name. Now, that name has lost any and all of its prestige and Draco is left to pick up the pieces and make a name for himself.

 _One step at a time,_ he reminds himself through deep breaths. One step at a time, just like everything has been with Harry. It had been one step at a time that Draco took that night in the common room, one foot in front of the other that led to him falling for the boy he had been enemies with for years. The thought soothes him, and he manages to sit down without feeling the need to itch his skin off.

One step at a time, always together.

Without Harry, he never would have even thought to go down the career path of becoming a potions professor, and it is likely he would have ended up unhappy and stuck with some boring old Ministry job. It is almost comical how Harry never stops being a saviour in his own little ways.

Once he has calmed down enough, Draco begins to get dressed. Before donning his robes, he changes out of his pants and swaps them for a pair of peach coloured knickers. They had been a gift from Harry for his birthday this year. It resulted in an hour long debate on whether this was actually a birthday present for him or Harry, but he shut up rather quickly once Harry had his tongue in his arse. According to Harry, the colour makes Draco’s pale arse look _yummy._ Draco tries not to blush as he recalls the way Harry had expressed that very thought.

The door swings open just as Draco finishes up the last of the buttons on the sleeves of his robe, and he swivels his head to see Harry at the door. For a moment, he simply stands there, gaping at Draco. Then he lets out a whistle at the sight of Draco dressed in his all black robes, as was the requirement for their graduation.

“Wow, aren’t you just—“

“Pulchritudinous?” Draco offers.

Harry laughs. “Extremely.” He shuffles forward and gives Draco a small peck in greeting. “Really, I can’t wait to take this off of you tonight.”

Draco pushes him away with a light, but firm hand. “Down, Potter,” he says, struggling to fight the growing heat on his face from Harry’s words. “Now come on, time for you to put on your own robes.”

Admittedly, the robes Harry has chosen for the occasion are nice. No, that isn’t the word for it—they are infuriatingly _pulchritudinous_. Draco can tell just as much when they stand together in front of their floor length mirror, inspecting each other’s robes. While Draco’s robes are much more form fitting, cut just the way he likes it, the trousers of Harry’s pants have a more relaxed look to them. It isn’t messy, however, as it is accompanied by a well-fitted waistcoat and sleeves that do well to highlight all those delicious arm muscles Harry has built up after Hogwarts.

“Well, don’t you look gorgeous,” Draco remarks. Because truly, Harry looks like a damn model with his effortless good looks and messy hair.

“Only to match my gorgeous boyfriend,” Harry shoots back.

Draco wants to reply but is much too struck by how bloody handsome Harry is with his strong jaw and crooked nose. His eyes, always so bright and charming, roam over Draco’s form in obvious appreciation and that only further intensifies the ache that Draco feels. He has the blessing of this beautiful man as his boyfriend, and Harry only thinks the same of him.

Harry reaches up to push away a strand of hair from Draco’s face. “Feeling better, darling?”

Draco nods. “Whenever I’m with you.”

Draco attempts a chaste kiss then, but it quickly turns heated. In seconds, he has Harry up against the mirror, slender fingers coiling into thick hair. In return, Harry slides strong hands down the plane of Draco’s back until they meet the swell of his arse, squeezing tight over the material there. Harry has a knee slotted between Draco’s legs now, the pressure all too welcome as Draco licks into the heat of Harry’s mouth.

“Mm, the ceremony,” Draco argues. It sounds pathetic even to his ears, and Harry must agree as he chuckles heat against Draco’s lips. “We, ah, we need to go.”

“Just one more kiss.”

It is maddening how good Harry looks right now. Draco wants nothing more than to forgo the ceremony, wants to stay here and hump Harry’s well-muscled leg until he sees stars. He wants Harry to use him the same way, rutting his clothed cock against Draco until he comes and makes a mess of himself in his fancy new robes. Then Draco would hold Harry’s hips against the mirror and use his tongue to clean all the cum off of that cock and hope to make a mess again.

Just as Draco’s prick truly begins to thicken, Harry pulls back, panting and clearly regretting his actions. Draco tries to follow, leaning up to capture his lips into another kiss, but Harry places a firm hand on his chest, holding him back.

Harry lets out a frustrated groan. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we really should get going.”

Draco allows himself to bask in the fading heat of their passion before finally taking the initiative to step away entirely. “Right, right. We’ve got a graduation ceremony to attend.”

_

The ceremony is elaborate, but much more simple than the one they had at the end of their eighth year. It is meant for a much smaller amount of guests, for one, celebrating the graduation of only five people rather than the already measly thirty of their class that year. The decorations are less ostentatious as well, taking on a more muted but still sophisticated look. The Great Hall has been refurbished in accents of gold in celebration, and Draco cannot help but be charmed by the enchanted night sky that looms over them in contrast to the shine of the decorations.

From up on stage, Draco spots his mother and Aunt Andromeda, sitting beside each other with rigid postures and matching graceful smiles. Beside Andromeda sits little Teddy Lupin, preoccupied with whatever toy Andromeda has given him to prevent him from making too much noise during the ceremony. He has just turned five recently and already has been quite the chatterbox; Harry says it is a byproduct of being around Draco too much.

Draco is surprised to find Pansy and Blaise there as well, as neither had told him that they would be attending. He had been under the impression that both were busy, so he had not bothered to send either of them an invitation. He figures mother has something to do with their presence.

Pansy looks different from the last time he saw her, Christmas of last year, her hair much longer now and reaching just past her shoulders. Blaise looks the same as ever, features sharp and cutting in contrast to all that sit near him. Draco recognizes that they are both dressed in formal robes from one of Pansy’s fashion lines that had just been released in the springtime. When his friends notice him looking their way, Pansy gives a wave and Blaise grins. Draco can only nod in acknowledgement, careful not to make a scene as McGonagall is speaking now.

“These apprentices were picked based on their outstanding performances at their respective wizarding college as well as their special aptitude for learning,” Headmistress McGonagall’s sonorous-enhanced voice rings around the room.

She pauses in her speech to give them all a backwards glance, her eyes sweeping over the row of apprentices. They have been seated according to last name, putting Harry and Draco together by chance. Draco’s gaze drifts over to where Harry sits to his right, tuning out the rest of McGonagall’s speech. It appears that Harry is not paying attention either, as their eyes meet when Draco looks over and discovers that Harry had already been looking at him. Warmth spreads in his chest as he looks over his lover, looking so radiant under the candlelight and golden reflections.

Draco had always longed for this—for this sort of love and intimacy. For Harry Potter. Never did he truly understand what sort of yearning that was until Harry had saved his life in the Room of Requirement, leaving him completely thrown off-kilter by his feelings for the saviour of the wizarding world. Now to have it so tangibly within his grasp, granting him the ability to simply kiss and hold Harry whenever, makes him giddy with elation. It is the sort of power high that one can never come down from, and as a Slytherin, Draco relishes that feeling.

Harry regards him with those emerald eyes of his, gleaming brighter than any of the accoutrements of the hall. Merlin, does Draco love those eyes. He has heard Harry praise his own eye colour, the dull grey that he has inherited from his father. His grey is simply inadequate when put against Harry’s green, the colour and complexity of his eyes reminding Draco of refined beryl. It is the colour that one would see on jewelry for its beauty.

Somewhere, in the back of Draco’s mind, he registers McGonagall talking about the accomplishments each of them have had during their time as apprentices. He does not care, however, much too entranced by the look of adoration that Harry gives him. He is positive that the look is mirrored on his own face now, his pink lips upturned and spread wide against his face in a grin. As subtle as one can be when up on stage before an audience, Draco reaches over into Harry’s lap to entwine their fingers together, relishing the fit of their hands in each other’s. Harry bites on his full lower lip for a moment, clearly wanting to say something.

When Draco arches a questioning brow at him, Harry gives him a lopsided grin before leaning over to whisper in his ear: “Can’t get over how handsome you look right now.”

Draco sincerely hopes his blush is not so evident under all of the lights.

Another difference that Draco notices is that this ceremony is much shorter than his eighth year one had been. The very end of the ceremony is marked by each of the apprentices’ speeches of gratitude, but before that, McGonagall explains to the attending audience each of the apprentices’ plans following graduation. In the coming year, Neville will be serving as a secondary teacher in Herbology alongside Professor Sprout. This will only be for a year though, as Professor Sprout has announced that she will be retiring the year after. With Slughorn’s official retirement this year, Draco is to be taking over his post in the coming school year. Harry, in turn, is to take up the role of Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts professor while Professor Bautista takes the position of Hogwarts’ quidditch coach and flying instructor. As for the other two apprentices, Agatha and Priscilla, the two ladies plan to work together as private tutors for other wizarding children.

They are called up to receive their graduation medals by last name, with Priscilla going first and Agatha next. Neville follows her afterwards, using his speech time to give a teary thank you to his friends and family and all who had ever supported him. He spends time thanking his grandmother, who is sitting in the front row with a proud smile on her face. Once Neville is finished, it is Draco’s turn to be called up. Just before standing, Draco shoots Harry a smile that he returns along with a squeeze of his hand before letting go.

“Congratulations, Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall greets him once he reaches her spot on the stage.

“Thank you, headmistress.”

“It’s Minerva now,” she replies, mouth quirking in a way that makes Draco feel as though he is being let in on a little secret. She proceeds to place the medal on him, Draco having to duck slightly to aid her. “I look forward to working with you.”

He accepts the medal and her words with a nod before stepping forward to the podium, taking her place behind the metal figure. All eyes are on him now as he prepares to speak, hands fiddling with the folded up parchment that contains the speech he has so diligently prepared for. He looks into the faces of the audience, most he recognizes, some he does not. The one who matters most, however, is the one he must look back at to see, and it is Harry’s encouraging smile that allows him to finally speak.

“Good evening, everyone, and thank you for attending tonight’s ceremony,” Draco addresses the crowd. He observes the pleased expression his mother gives him at his manners and continues on with a slight smile. “Your presence means the world to me and my fellow graduates, so thank you for taking the time to support us.

“I extend my thanks to my mother, who has been steadfast in her support of me in all things I endeavor to do. She is one of the many reasons I am still standing here, alive and breathing and taking another step into my future.” Draco pauses to take a deep breath. “I would also like to thank Headmistress McGonagall. She has been nothing but patient and encouraging with me, and I have her to thank for accepting me into such a prestigious program.”

McGonagall gives him a nod of acknowledgement from where she stands to the side, smiling openly at him. Draco nods back and continues, “As many of you know, I have not always made the best decisions in life.”

His voice falters for a moment, his throat going dry. The audience looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his speech. It is not a secret what sort of things Draco had done during the war; it was only so long ago when he had been on the side fighting to destroy all of this, what they have now gathered in this room now.

Panicked, his eyes sweep over the crowd, not quite seeing. His mind processes a blur of faces, family and friends and people who survived the war. Eventually, his eyes land on Molly Weasley, who has tears in her eyes and a kind smile. The guilt of seeing her without Fred Weasley is constricting, and for a moment he feels as though he cannot breathe.

“Excuse me,” Draco manages to choke out. He grips the podium, knuckles going paler than possible, white as bone. It takes all of his strength to push off the weight on his chest now. _One step at a time,_ he reminds himself with a steadying breath, _finish the speech now._ “As I was saying, a lot of mistakes have been made on my part. There is no erasing my past, but I am thankful for this opportunity to move towards a better future. Especially with someone that I care so greatly for.”

Draco does not need to see clearly to know that the audience has shifted their focus from him to Harry, still sitting in his seat behind Draco. It helps, somewhat, to know that the attention has drifted from him now and it grants him the strength to finish the rest of his speech.

Without looking back, Draco addresses his boyfriend in the last part of his speech, “The last person I want to thank is my boyfriend, Harry Potter. When there is no one else, I know he is there, always ready to accept me with open arms. It is because of him that I am on this crazy adventure now, and I cannot wait to continue it with him. Thank you, all.”

At the sound of applause, Draco gives a formal bow before turning to return to his seat. McGonagall calls up Harry then, and just as Draco is about to sit, Harry rises from his seat. Before he saunters down the stage, he pauses to haul Draco back up to his feet, pulling him into a kiss in front of the crowd. Draco’s protests are muffled as he melts into the kiss, uncaring of the audience they have and steadying himself on Harry’s firm arms. Harry, the git, goes as far as to dip Draco in a showful manner. It makes Draco laugh into Harry’s mouth, his mirth swallowed by his boyfriend. They only part when McGonagall pointedly clears her throat at them, to which Harry carefully sets him upright and gives their headmistress an apologetic grin.

Draco takes his seat with a hot face, cheeks flushed and hair slightly out of place from Harry’s handling. Neville is shaking his head at him with laughter in his eyes, and if Draco were better focused, he would have been able to see the way Ron and Hermione share giggles over the exhibition. After so many years, the couple is all too used to Draco and Harry’s antics.

McGonagall has just given Harry his graduation medal and offered her hand in a shake when Draco calms. He looks up in time to see Harry completely ignore McGonagall’s hand in favour of wrapping her in a tight hug. The old woman returns it with an amused smile, and Draco’s chest aches with joy over how much love surrounds him and Harry. He has no idea what it must feel like for McGonagall, to have known them and seen them grow up in a war and turn out okay in the end. At the very least, as okay as they all can be.

In a predictable manner, Harry’s speech is short. Draco remembers him having written and finished it in a day. It isn’t that Harry does not mean the words he says—Draco had to learn that the hard way when they first started dating—but that he doesn’t believe much in formality or refinement when it comes to sentiments. It was startling at first, especially for one like Draco who lived his entire life planning out every word with care so as not to upset anyone, or to use his words for gain. Harry’s earnestness and sincerity had been grating when they were children, but only because Draco had never been subject to it before. Now, it is just another thing Draco cherishes in Harry’s character.

Harry thanks his friends and family, namely Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley, who was simply tearing up earlier, is now fully bawling, tissues out and everything. Aside from Ron, the only other Weasleys in attendance with her are George and her husband Arthur, who pats his wife’s back in sympathy. Harry goes on to thank his teachers and Draco, who he tosses a wink back at and only serves to make Draco’s cheeks flame even more. At the very end, though, he spends a moment to thank his parents and all those who had sacrificed their lives for him. Draco is positive there is not a dry eye in the hall after that.

Once Harry takes his seat again, McGonagall takes her place at the podium once again and announces, “I present to you, our graduating apprentices.”

Applause roars through the hall as they all stand together in unison. Harry grins over at him before taking his hand. As McGonagall thanks the crowd for coming, Harry lifts Draco’s hand to kiss the back of it delicately. Draco knows what he means without Harry even having to say it. _I’m so proud of you,_ Harry’s eyes say. Draco only hopes his own eyes reflect the same sentiment back at him.

The reception takes place in the Great Hall as well. With a clap of her hands, McGonagall clears the chairs and tables of food appear. Draco need only tug and Harry is following him down from the platform and towards their family and friends. That nervous, jittery sort of feeling in his bones continues to linger, only much lighter now than before. He just needs to remember that it is always just one step at a time. Before, it was passing their NEWTs. Then it had been applying for school and getting into Draper’s Institute. Now he has taken another step, apprenticing at Hogwarts, and is preparing to take the next one. Maybe Draco isn’t nervous, but rather excited now—excited for this next step in life with Harry.

Harry’s chuckle brings him out of his thoughts. “You’re thinking loudly.”

Draco frowns at him, or at least attempts to, as it is difficult to rid himself of the smile that seems to have taken a home on his face. “Careful, if Pansy hears you, she’ll forever tease us for being one of those couples that have fused into one.”

“And is that so bad?” Harry squeezes his hand to warn him before he crashes into a guest in front of him.

Draco manages to catch himself in time, instead colliding backwards into Harry’s firm chest. “No, of course not.”

Andromeda, Teddy, and Draco’s mother find them first. It is a miracle when the crowd parts to allow them through, and the two women greet both men with congratulatory hugs. Teddy says hello to Harry first before walking off towards Draco and demanding he be held for the time being. Draco acquiesces easily, as he always does with Teddy, and accepts the boy into his arms with a grin.

“Aren’t you a little too big to still be carried now?” Draco’s mother teases. Andromeda looks equally amused, but refrains from making any comments.

Teddy shakes his head emphatically, wrapping his arms around Draco’s neck in a defiant manner. “But it’s Draco,” Teddy argues. “He’s strong enough to carry me.”

“I swear,” Harry begins, shaking his head in exasperation, “with the way he treats you, you’d think _you’re_ his godfather and not me.”

Ever since Teddy and Draco were first introduced, Teddy has been completely enamoured with Draco. They initially met the summer after eighth year, when Teddy had been only a baby. It has resulted in Andromeda insisting that Harry and Draco visit more often, which then developed into them looking after Teddy whenever Andromeda was busy. Draco had originally chalked up Teddy’s adoration of him to the weird and vague relation they have as family members, but Harry insists that it is because he is better with kids than he thinks.

Draco sticks his tongue out at Harry, an action that Teddy copies. “He just has good taste, clearly.”

“Clearly,” Teddy repeats in a perfect imitation of Draco’s posh accent. Harry lets out a brilliant laugh and gives Teddy’s nose a light flick. In response, the point of Teddy’s nose lengthens significantly.

“Look,” Harry points out with shameless amusement, “both my boys with the same nose now.”

Draco cannot help the affronted noise that escapes him, “My nose is _not_ that large.”

Harry looks ready to disagree, but Andromeda interjects with a placating hand to his shoulder. “To think you both will be professors so soon. Next thing you know, you’ll both be Teddy’s professors.”

“Draco will be my teacher?” Teddy looks up at Draco with hopeful eyes, completely ignoring Harry’s whines at not being included in that question. Draco’s chest pangs at the indisputable admiration the child has for him. Why, he will never understand, but he is grateful to be so highly regarded by the little one.

“Not yet, _mon chouchou,_ ” Draco answers. He readjusts his grip of the boy, remembering with each minute that passes just how big Teddy has gotten since they last spoke. “When you reach Hogwarts, then Harry and I will be your professors.”

Teddy gives a little pout that looks all too familiar, and Draco’s suspicions are confirmed when he looks over at Harry and sees a matching expression. As far as Draco is concerned, he is nowhere near ready to have a child. Although there is no denying the little pinch to his gut that he feels whenever interacting with Teddy. Especially when Harry is right beside him, proving just how lovely it would be to see him as a father. That is another step that can be taken at a later time, Draco supposes.

All too soon, Andromeda and Teddy have to leave, as it will be his bed time soon. Teddy protests, saying he can stay up for much longer. His arguments abruptly cease when a loud yawn escapes him, leaving him bashful over his previous claims. Harry makes sure to promise him that they will visit in the next week, maybe even have a sleepover if Teddy has been good. That brings a smile to the boy’s face and is enough to mollify him for the time being.

Draco’s mother explains that she is to be leaving with them as well, but asks to speak with Draco privately first. Judging from the curious look Andromeda makes, Draco assumes this had not been discussed with his aunt. Harry looks equally suspicious, but does not push, easily taking Teddy from Draco’s hold and waiting to the side along with Andromeda. Draco’s mother swiftly pulls him aside, miraculously managing to find a semi-private spot amidst the chaos of the Great Hall, one where Draco can hear her even as she speaks in a low voice.

She purses her lips, painted a deep shade of red for today’s ceremony. “I apologize for dragging you off like that, but I have my reasons.”

Draco recognizes the peculiar intonation of his mother’s voice. She rarely uses this tone these days, but he remembers hearing it often during the war. It doesn’t match with her stance, straight and tall and regal. However, it is without a doubt the specific voice Draco had become so attuned to as a sixteen year old boy sitting at a table helmed by Voldemort. Narcissa Malfoy is nervous, and that does nothing but create unease in the pit of Draco’s stomach.

“You’re worrying me,” Draco admits, trying for a light tone. He tries to think of what his mother could have taken an issue with lately. “Is this because of the kiss on stage? You should know by now how Harry is with these things, I—”

His mother surprises him with laughter. “Draco, of course not. I am much too used to you and Harry’s behaviour by now.”

That brings a blush to Draco’s face, as well as relief. Telling his mother about his new relationship status with the boy who lived had been much easier than expected back in eighth year. She had been delighted over the news, and welcomed Harry with open arms. Draco recalls the first time they properly met, his mother having invited the two of them over for tea. They quickly got to talking once the awkward air cleared and the next thing Draco knew, his mother was showing Harry to the solarium where her newest paintings resided.

“I simply thought it might be best that you open your graduation gift in private,” his mother admits, drawing Draco’s attention back to the conversation at hand by procuring a small box from the pocket of her robes. She flourishes the box before him, pale hand cradling the gift. “Your father helped in selecting it.”

Draco’s eyes snap up to meet her pale blue, uncertainty etched into his features. It takes a great effort for him to say his next words: “From my father?”

Ever since Draco had told his father about his relationship with Harry, they have not spoken. Even now, Draco regrets his decision to have that particular conversation in person. Maybe his father’s scathing words would have hurt less if Draco only read them in a letter. Instead, he had been forced to sit there and endure Lucius’ anger as he spit vitriol over how Draco had chosen to fall for the man responsible for his imprisonment in Azkaban. For a moment, Lucius very nearly succeeded in his manifest mission. Draco had gone home straight away to break up with Harry, only to realize at the last second how foolish it would be if he allowed himself to fall prey to his father’s manipulations.

Rather than treat his father in kind, he asked that Harry use his influence to relocate Lucius from Azkaban to an unplotted cottage under Ministry surveillance. His mother visits when she can, always accompanied by two aurors. Draco never bothers, still fearful of what his father might say when they meet again.

“He read your letter,” she explains, nudging the box into Draco’s faltering hands. “The one about you and Harry finishing your apprenticeship today.”

“I see,” Draco mumbles.

He doesn’t always write. It had been his mother’s suggestion after his father no longer wished to see him in person. He did not bother at first, feeling that his father did not deserve any communication with him, even through letters. Eventually, he caved and began writing occasionally to his father about his current life with Harry. Harry very wisely never mentions it, and Draco appreciates that. He never knew if his father read the letters, as he had never gotten a response back.

Draco stares down at the small box now sitting in the palm of his hand. It is nearly the size of his palm and coated in plum-coloured velvet. He thinks he has seen similar boxes like this before at the manor, usually of varying sizes and containing family heirlooms and jewelry. There is a silver design embroidered onto the top, resembling some of the floral tapestries Draco has seen donning the curtains at home.

His mother’s lips quirk up at his obvious hesitance, eyes crinkling in anticipation. “Well… Open it up.”

He gives his mother a strange look before slowly opening the box, gasping softly when he sees the contents. Inside sit a set of matching rings, the band made of yellow gold and silver, fusing together into a nautical knot. They are seated together in plush velvet, glinting in the light from above them.

“Mother… What…?” He loses his voice, speechless as he further inspects the fine pieces of jewelry.

His mother places a cool hand on Draco’s cheek, cradling his face. “I hope you don’t find it too late to forgive your father. He sincerely regrets how he has treated you in the past and simply wants you to be happy.”

It is impossible for Draco to come up with a proper response, tears burning at his eyes and throat tightening. In his last letter to his father, delivered only two weeks ago, he had expressed his intentions to propose to Harry soon. When his father had a change of heart, he does not know, but none of it matters now that he has physical evidence of his father’s remorse in his hands.

“It took some work, but together, we both agreed on this design,” his mother explains to him in a kind voice. When Draco doesn’t respond, she drops her hand. “... Do you like it?”

“Mother, I—” Draco shuts the box and shoves it into the pocket of his robes. Very quickly, he swipes at his eyes, ridding himself of the budding tears. “I love it. Harry will love it too.”

Draco draws his mother into a tight hug, fighting hard to stop himself from sobbing into her hair as though he were a child again. She leaves with Andromeda and Teddy right after, a smile gracing her features. Draco bids Andromeda goodbye in a similar fashion, embracing her firmly. He has to kneel in order to reach Teddy, wrapping his arms around the little boy and giving in when Teddy requests a kiss on the cheek.

Harry has a strange look on his face when they finally part ways. “Are you alright?”

Draco does not reply with words, but simply stands on his tippy toes and kisses Harry. Once again, he doesn’t care for the people around him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and losing himself in the feeling of Harry’s care and adoration. Harry does not argue, eagerly delving into Draco’s mouth with a seeking tongue. Draco can feel Harry’s lips twitch against his own, widening into a smile as his hands settle onto Draco’s hips.

Draco is not alright, he’s _marvelous._

A hand of his strays into Harry’s hair, fingers tangling into the thick curls at the nape of his neck. This touch anchors him to the moment, keeping him from floating off with thoughts and dreams of his future with Harry. Elation spreads through him, making his toes curl and skin tingle at the excitement of his future proposal to this man. Harry’s grip on his hips tighten as Draco tilts his head, craning upward and into Harry.

“Oi, there are children present!”

Harry pulls away from Draco’s lips then, but still keeps his hold. Draco turns to see that their friends and the Weasleys have finally found them. Ron had been the one to speak, his freckled face ruddy with mock chastisement.

“He means himself,” George pipes up. That earns him a glare from his younger brother and laughter from the group.

Mrs. Weasley dismisses her boys’ tomfoolery with flapping hands and pushes them aside to wrap Harry and Draco into a shared embrace. “Congratulations, my dear boys. Arthur had to leave because of a work emergency, but he wanted you to know how happy we all are for you both.”

Harry and Draco thank her and the rest of the group sincerely for their congratulatory sentiments. Never one to beat around the bush, Pansy loudly announces that they all come bearing gifts for the couple. She is the most excited to present her gift, handing over the nondescript bag with a cheeky wink and the implication that Harry will enjoy the gift very much. Draco rolls his eyes at Harry’s obvious delight at the statement, who takes the bag with enthusiasm. Draco only hopes this gift isn’t as ridiculous as the maid outfit Pansy made for him on his twentieth birthday.

Blaise, the bastard, gifts the couple with volume two of _Karma Sutra_ , which makes Harry laugh before resizing the book and tucking it into the bag that contains Pansy’s gift. Blaise insists that it was imperative he gift them with the book, so that it matched alongside their first volume. Mrs. Weasley does not find the gift very amusing, just as she had not found it amusing when Harry gifted Draco with the first volume during their first Christmas together at the Burrow.

Ron’s gift, which both George and Hermione also lay claim to helping with, turns out to be a map. At first, Draco is underwhelmed as it appears to be a regular old map of Hogwarts. However, with a simple incantation, the ink bursts to life and becomes littered with tiny hearts spread all around the grounds. It is then explained to them that the map serves to show all of the places in Hogwarts that they have shagged, an alarming amount of hearts residing over where their quarters lie. Draco snatches the map away before either Blaise or Mrs. Weasley can count exactly how many hearts there are and where.

“We might have been inspired by the Marauder's map,” Ron admits, rubbing at his cheek in a thoughtful manner, as though he is trying to advertise the gift’s properties. Draco recalls Harry showing him the map once, marveling at the magical work put into it.

George shares a conspiratorial look with Harry and Draco, giving a not-so-subtle nudge to Harry’s ribs. “I added in the Chamber of Secrets, just in case.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry claps the older Weasley on the arm. “Just what I needed to forget the time Voldemort tried killing me down there when I was twelve. Really appreciate it.”

“He’s joking, obviously,” Hermione says in a dismissive manner. Draco wants to believe her, but the red tinge to Ron’s cheeks give the truth away. He hopes that at the very least, Mrs. Wealsey believes her. It would do absolutely no one any good if she ever pictured what sort of scene that would make.

Harry readjusts his grip on the bag of gifts from one hand to the other. “Should I be concerned that all of these gifts are related to our sex life?”

“Hm?” Draco nearly misses his question, much too preoccupied with the way his muscles flex under the skin tight material of his robes. “Oh, don’t act so innocent. You do just the same as they do.”

Pansy scoffs and crosses her arms, “Exactly. Need I remind you of your reported golden purchase?”

The comment results in laughter from everyone in the group who remembers the incident all too well, even Mrs. Weasley. Everyone except for Harry, of course, who grumbles on about how the _Prophet_ should be minding their own business anyways. Draco kisses his scowl away, ignoring the usual groans of feigned annoyance from Blaise and Ron at their public displays of affection.

Harry’s expression softens somewhat after that, tucking Draco under his arm. “Thank you, Pansy, for reminding me that I still have _my own_ gift to give to Draco so we should get going. There’s a time limit in place.”

“What an interesting euphemism,” Blaise mutters. Pansy, the cow, responds with a shrill laugh of agreement.

They all bid each other adieu, just as Draco had done so earlier with his own family. There are a flurry of farewells and another round of congratulations from the group before they each go their own way. Mrs. Weasley and George head back to the Burrow while the others stay around to speak with their former professors. Draco does not care about any of them now, not when Harry is tugging him down the deserted corridors with such urgency.

He does his best to get any answers from Harry, any explanation as to what this “gift” with a time limit might be, but he only receives a secretive smile in response as they fly down the halls. Distracted by Harry’s tenacity, Draco does not recognize the path they take. He only realizes where they have ended up once halfway up the enchanted staircase, bringing the couple up to the headmistress’ office.

The first thing Draco notices is how empty the place is. It does not surprise him that McGonagall is not there; he saw her conversing with Neville and his grandmother back at the Great Hall. What is odd though is how there are no portraits in view. All of the frames hang up on the walls, hauntingly vacant. Never in Draco’s life has he seen so many frames unoccupied, aside from the time Umbridge had cursed Hogwarts with her presence.

“Uh, love, what are we doing here?” Draco asks, figuring that the other man cannot go any longer ignoring his questions.

Harry trails forward into the office, stopping just at the center and gazing up at the charmed ceiling. The clouds that hang above in a mist match the night sky outside, bright stars littered throughout and looking not unlike gems. Still unsure of their purpose, Draco loiters by the entrance, feeling like an intruder to the space. Harry notices his hesitance and turns to face Draco, coy grin still firmly in place.

He reaches into the gift bag, pulling out Ron’s gift to them. “We’re here to add another heart to this map.”

Realization dawns on Draco then, accompanied by growing horror as he remembers the meeting Harry had with the headmistress earlier. “Oh, Merlin, please tell me you did not ask McGonagall to use her office to shag in!”

“I didn’t!” Harry quickly says, hands waving in defense. Draco thinks if Harry were any more aggressive, that absurd sex map would fly out of his hold. “I just asked her if I could use it for an indefinite amount of time after the ceremony to… Celebrate.”

“That is essentially the same thing!” Draco hisses. To combat his rising mortification, Draco tries desperately to remind himself that this is the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. This stupid, randy man who very much has the best intentions at heart but the most idiotic executions of them sometimes. “Why would she even say yes to this?”

Harry lets out an apprehensive chuckle, as though unsure whether the sound is appropriate in this time of Draco’s distress. “Believe it or not, Flitwick actually helped me convince her.”

“Good heavens.” Draco covers his face with his hand, hoping that the action will block out any thoughts of Flitwick campaigning for their right to shag in yet another area of Hogwarts. His hand lowers against his will, having been gently pulled away by Harry. He cradles Draco’s hand gingerly, testing the waters.

“Come on… Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it,” Harry implores, impish grin back on his face.

Draco flushes, heat flooding his face as he remembers how he teasingly suggested that they try to shag in all corners of the castle when they had first been accepted into an apprenticeship at Hogwarts. Of course, at the time he had not been thinking of the headmistress’ office. Perhaps several classrooms. Maybe even the quidditch pitch for once, which he knows Harry would readily agree to in a heartbeat if the opportunity ever presented itself. But never _here,_ even if the idea does send a pulse of hot desire to the place between his legs.

When he doesn’t reply, Harry removes his hold of Draco’s hand, moving to the clasp of Draco’s outer robes. With practiced ease, Harry undoes his robes with one hand, revealing the black suit Draco has under. Their eyes meet and with a wave of Harry’s hand, Draco is naked, save for the peach coloured knickers he put on earlier. His suit, robes, and shoes reappear on the floor, neatly folded. It is a nifty trick, and Draco would have much more appreciation for it, had he not seen it done numerous times before.

Even though they are completely alone, Draco feels so exposed, the chill of the air settling onto his skin. His arms cross over his chest in a protective manner, suddenly overcome with self-consciousness. Harry pauses to drag his eyes over Draco’s form, bright green taking in pale skin. He snaps out of his reverie for a moment, only to turn and pick up the bag containing Pansy’s gift.

“Knowing Pansy, we could probably use this gift now.”

Draco arches a brow at him before taking the bag and looking inside. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Thankfully, it is not as ridiculous as the maid outfit Pansy made for him in the past, although he thinks that one may be too hard to top. This gift comes close, however, and Draco settles on the belief once he pulls all of the pieces out. In celebration of their recent accomplishments, Pansy has decided to make him a replica of the Hogwarts uniform, complete with a Slytherin tie. Although, rather than trousers, Pansy thought it would be cute to give Draco a teeny skirt instead.

At the bottom of the bag reads a note in her scrawling cursive: _Hope you boys enjoy this trip down memory lane._

When Draco looks back up, he sees that Harry is no longer before him, but now stands a few feet away. He leans heavily against the large wooden desk at the center of the room, glee clear in his expression as he recognizes the pieces of cloth in Draco’s hold. If Draco did not know any better, he would think that his best friend and boyfriend were in cahoots with each other, conspiring to satisfy Harry’s neverending libido. Not that Draco doesn’t enjoy this; he would gladly dress in whatever Harry wants to see him in.

Draco’s eyes rake over Harry’s slouched form, admiring how at ease his boyfriend looks with his hands braced against the desk. That waistcoat of his, wrapped tight around his midsection and wonderfully highlighting the figure of his strong upper body, is doing things to Draco’s psyche. It is not an exaggeration to say that Harry has a god-like body, and Draco isn’t sure if it is envy or lust that he feels looking at it now.

“Come on,” Harry coaxes. His tongue darts out to swipe at his lips. “Be a good boy and try it on for me.”

Heat snakes its way to the pit of Draco’s belly at Harry’s words, the deepness of his voice like warm honey. He swallows in a useless attempt to contain his own excitement at what is to come. He is sure Harry can see it, the semi-hardness that has begun to form within his panties. The peach coloured knickers are already beginning to feel too constricting as blood travels to his cock. It isn’t fair how much he loves doing this for Harry, how much he loves being told what to do by this man.

Just from the feel of the material, Draco can tell Pansy put effort and money into creating the outfit. It makes sense that she had used such high end fabric, considering how little of the outfit exists. The shirt is much too short and just barely long enough to tuck into the equally skimpy skirt. The skirt’s length is awfully reminiscent of the skirts he wore in eighth year, reaching just the tops of his thighs and leaving his legs all too bare. Aside from the lavish feel of the fabric on his skin, the outfit is nothing more than a silly recreation of the standard Hogwarts uniform. Knowing this, Draco still does up his tie as immaculately as he always does.

His gaze drifts back up, eyes seeking out Harry’s form. His throat dries when he sees that Harry has shed his own outer robe, one hand on his crotch now, kneading the bulge there. The expression he holds, plush lower lip caught between his teeth and eyes hooded in desire, has arousal shooting through Draco’s system. No one has ever looked at Draco like that, as though he were magic itself.

Harry pushes off the desk then, rounding it before taking a seat in the grandiose chair there. Draco shuffles over, bare feet padding over the stone floor, the only sound that fills the damningly quiet room. Once sat, Harry gives him a beckoning look, spreading his legs in a most enticing manner. His trousers conform to his thighs, pronouncing their shapeliness and looking complimentary to the large bulge residing between them.

“You want to know why you’ve been called to the headmaster’s office?” Harry asks, propping his arm up onto one of the armrests and resting his head against his fist.

Almost involuntarily, Draco rolls his eyes, realizing what sort of game Harry is playing at. They don’t do this often, especially since Harry tends to be rather terrible at it. The other man gets too invested in whatever story he has concocted for his persona, never able to stick to whatever loose script they have decided on. Last time, they had attempted the old auror-catching-the-criminal fantasy. As expected, Harry had gotten much too distracted by exactly what crimes Draco was being charged for rather than the actual act of fucking him.

“Really, Harry?” Draco asks, only out of principle. Perhaps he wants to allow Harry the chance to backtrack.

Harry clears his throat. “That’s Headmaster Potter to you, Mister Malfoy.”

Well, that created a very unexpected reaction between Draco’s legs.

He slinks over to Harry then, giving an overexaggerated pout. “Oh, my apologies, Headmaster Potter,” he purrs, voice dripping in faux sweetness. He holds his hands behind his back in a demure fashion, doing his best to exude an innocent demeanor. “Why have I been called here?”

Harry’s eyes linger on the hem of his skirt, evidently relishing how revealing it is. “You’ve been a naughty boy.”

Draco barks a laugh at that, composure slipping. No matter how horny he is at the moment, nothing could have stopped him from laughing at such terribly regurgitated dialogue from a cheesy romance novel. Harry had said the same thing when they roleplayed as auror and criminal, and Draco had reacted just the same.

“Come on, don’t laugh,” Harry whines, looking adorable as he pouts in frustration. It is a testament to both his and Draco’s libido that they are both still hard and horny as hell at this point.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, love,” Draco apologizes quickly. He lets the last of his mirth fester out before reassuming his earlier persona. “What will the punishment be, headmaster?”

At his words, Harry jumps right back in as well with an eager grin. “On your knees for me.”

Draco sinks to the stone floor before Harry, pleased yet not surprised to find a cushioning charm ready for him. It is always like Harry to be so caring. His eyes are drawn to the clink of Harry’s belt as he begins to unbuckle his trousers, hands moving deftly over the fly. When he pulls out his cock, there is no denying the lurch of desire that encompasses Draco at the sight of it—thick and hard and ready for his mouth.

Draco begins to reach for it, only to be stopped by the tutting of Harry’s mouth. The other man shakes his head at him in reprimand, looking all too pleased with the advantage he has over Draco from where he sits elevated. A calloused palm cups the side of Draco’s face, the grip soft in contrast as he runs a thumb across Draco’s lower lip.

“Hands behind your back,” Harry commands. The low timbre of his voice translates into arousal, sending even more blood rushing to Draco’s groin.

In a show of obedience, Draco gathers his hands behind himself and holds them in place. A satisfied hum comes from Harry, and only then does Draco lean back into his space, upper body fitting into the space between Harry’s legs. He dips his head down low before parting his lips to mouth at Harry’s balls, the rough material of Harry’s trousers brushing against his cheek as he angles his head further to take them into his mouth. The hitching of Harry’s breath makes Draco want to smile in smugness, if only his mouth were not already so occupied.

He cranes his neck upward, moving from Harry’s bollocks and onto the very base of his cock, doing nothing more than running his lips against the gathering of veins there. Carefully, he reaches out with his tongue, massaging the sensitive skin with barely there pressure. His tongue is gone as quickly as it had come, and he angles his head to give attention to the other side of Harry’s cock. Once again he repeats the action, panting hot breath over his cock rather than actually sucking.

Thick fingers card their way into Draco’s hair in a tight grip. “Quit teasing, Mister Malfoy,” Harry’s gruff voice comes from above. Draco can feel the vibration of his tone from where he resides against Harry’s thigh.

“Yes, headmaster,” Draco gasps out when Harry tugs slightly on his hair, urging him to continue.

Rather than dawdle any further, Draco holds the flat of his tongue against the underside of Harry’s cock before travelling upwards. He licks his way up Harry’s shaft, feeling each bump and ridge of the appendage before reaching the flushed head of his cock. He stays there then, swirling his tongue over the glans and coating his cock in saliva. Another tug to his hair prompts him to finally take the head into his mouth, but only the head, and suck.

Harry hisses, fingers flexing against Draco’s scalp. “That’s right, so good for me, darling.”

Draco preens at the pet name, a shot of satisfaction travelling through his veins. Harry is always so responsive during sex, always feeding into Draco’s ego with his unfiltered praises. It encourages Draco to take Harry into his mouth completely then, causing Harry to moan in appreciation as the head of his cock hits the back of Draco’s throat. Draco wastes no time then, moving his head along Harry’s length quickly, filling the room with the filthy noises of his mouth.

“A-ah, fuck,” Harry curses, hips now rising from his seat. The legs of the chair scrape loudly against the floor from the undulating of his hips. The noise is but a murmur to Draco’s ears, his hearing attuned to the indecent noises Harry makes.

Draco adjusts accordingly to his movements, keeping his head still as Harry fucks into his mouth with shallow thrusts. His jaw is beginning to ache now, but he keeps still and lets Harry have his way with him, widening his mouth to take all of that thick cock. The thought of Harry using his body solely for pleasure makes him dizzy with desire, and he becomes acutely aware of his own cock, straining against the confines of his knickers. He craves any sort of touch or stimulation, anything to relieve himself of the itch that has sprung up within him. But he knows he has to be good for Harry and keep still, even if he wants nothing more than to rut against Harry’s leg and relieve himself.

Harry’s grip in Draco’s hair turns painful, but not unpleasurable, before his head is yanked up and away from Harry’s cock. He lets out a whine at the prickling irritation at his scalp, but does not complain any further, allowing Harry to haul him wherever he pleases. Held only by his hair, Draco is forced to look up at Harry then, and he can only imagine what sort of sight he must make—mouth looking abused and a dribble of saliva trailing down his chin, cool against his feverish skin.

“Get up now,” Harry tells him. The dirty leer he is given makes him weak, and it is a struggle for him to get to his feet. Harry pats at the desk then, green eyes jaded in lust as he takes in Draco’s rumpled form. “Bend over on the table, I want you to prepare yourself for me.

Draco nods, promptly arranging himself on the desk just as Harry had ordered. The desk, made of a dark wood that Draco is unfamiliar with, is a solid and uncomfortable presence beneath him, but that hardly matters at the moment. He hears rather than sees Harry rise to his feet, feeling the warmth of his body as he positions himself behind Draco. The shiver that runs through him is involuntary when he feels the pads of Harry’s fingers on his arse, tracing the pattern of lace on his knickers.

With his other hand, Harry grabs the hem of the skirt and pulls it up to better look at Draco’s panties. “I don’t think these are uniform,” Harry remarks.

Draco rasps out his defense, “There’s no uniform rule against these, sir.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the headmaster so that’s a rule now.” Harry squeezes harshly at his arse. “You should be punished for talking back.”

He then tugs at the knickers, pulling them down from Draco’s hips and exposing his cock and arse. The scanty garment falls to the floor, and Draco only manages to step one foot out of them before Harry is gripping his thigh and hefting a leg up onto the table. The peach panties stay hanging on his now suspended ankle, slightly swaying from the abrupt motion. His other leg stays down, pushed farther to the side by the heel of Harry’s shoe to fully display himself.

Before Draco can think to say the incantation, he finds himself with slick fingers, Harry clearly having done it for him. He fights the urge to rut against the desk, longing to care for the ache between his legs. However, he knows that Harry would not allow it, he would be able to find his release later. With a brief mental apology to McGonagall and any other future headmasters, Draco reaches back behind himself and traces his rim, wetting the ring of muscle with lube before pushing in.

He doesn’t bother to hold back his moans, his voice ringing out into the empty room, bouncing against the walls. He flattens himself further on the desk and uses his free hand to reach back and pull at his other cheek, holding himself open for Harry’s viewing pleasure. At this angle, it is difficult for him to manage anything deeper than half of his finger, leaving him woefully short of reaching his prostate.

“Such a pretty picture you make,” Harry hums. “You like this, don’t you? Letting me watch.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Draco whimpers, circling his entrance again before slipping in another digit. Draco has to shift his body to look behind himself, cock twitching between his abdomen and the table when he sees that Harry is touching himself, clearly enjoying the sight.

Draco refocuses on his task, stretching himself even further. He opens and widens his hole, making a show of spreading his fingers each time he pulls out. He wants more though, he _needs_ more. His fingers quicken in their pace, powering through the discomfort of the angle of his wrist.

“That’s enough. You’re ready for my cock now,” Harry decides. Draco quickly retracts his hands and stays poised on the desk, patiently waiting for Harry to enter him. Rather than do that, Harry tugs at his hips instead.

“Come on, darling,” Harry murmurs. “I want you to fuck yourself onto me.”

When Draco cranes his neck to face Harry again, he sees that Harry has taken a seat at the chair again. He looks so fucking good, skin sweaty and flushed and green eyes glowing in the dim of the room. The top buttons of his collar have been popped to allow for air, making him really look every bit like the sex-rumpled headmaster he is trying to be.

He lets the hands on his hips guide him down, all the way until Draco is hovering over Harry’s lap, still facing the desk but now reverse straddling Harry’s hips. Then, he grabs ahold of Harry’s cock and positions it just at his entrance, the tip grazing at the sensitive skin there.

Slowly, with trembling legs, Draco sinks down, gasping as Harry fills him up. Harry cooes praises into his ear as he takes Harry’s cock inch by inch, wet heat enveloping the other man. After what feels like an eternity, Draco finally bottoms out, his arse meeting the rough fabric of Harry’s pants.

“God, yes,” Harry rasps into his ear, breath hot. “You feel fucking incredible.”

Draco whines in response, unable to handle the clear adoration in Harry’s tone at the moment. His cock juts out from under his skirt, reddened beyond belief and drooling precum. The twitch of Harry’s cock within him reminds him of what he has been told to do, and with much effort, he lifts himself from Harry’s lap before slamming his hips back down. Harry chokes out a groan in response, hands squeezing at Draco’s hips in clear encouragement.

It doesn’t take much for Draco then to set up a measured pace, bouncing up and down onto Harry’s cock, riding him good and well. He feels himself accommodating to Harry’s length, his rim widening each time he reaches the base of Harry’s cock, filled to the brim.

“Mm, fuck!” Draco cries out, throwing his head back and onto Harry’s shoulder as he grinds against him.

His hands grip at the arm rests, using them as leverage to work Harry’s cock. He falls back onto the balls of his feet then, the blunt head of Harry’s cock ramming into his sweet spot and making his vision go white with each thrust.

Harry rips at the buttons of Draco’s shirt and he knows he’ll get hell from Pansy for that. He figures he’ll deal with it later, as he becomes distracted by Harry’s seeking hands, running over his chest and exploring the scarred skin. Draco’s moan breaks off into a choked gasp as Harry’s fingers find his nipples, circling the pink nubs at first before twisting. Impossibly so, he feels himself harden even more, the rutting of his hips becoming more desperate as he chases after his release.

“Look at you, so needy,” Harry rasps, hands moving to clutch at Draco’s hips in a vice-like grip. “You gonna come for me, darling?”

“Yes, yes, sir,” Draco chants, bouncing frantically up and down Harry’s thick length. “I’m so close.”

Sensing his desperation, Harry reaches down and grabs ahold of Draco’s cock, using the precum gathered at the head to wank him off. It only takes a few strokes before Draco is coming, body shuddering and heaving as he tries to keep his pace. Warm spunk splatters onto his chest, dirtying the uniform.

Before he can even recover, Harry lifts him up and throws him onto the desk, plowing into his arse in ardor for his own release. Draco cries out as Harry continues to slam into his prostate, the sensation bordering painful.

“Yes, fuck me harder!” Draco screams, hands gripping at the edge of the desk to keep himself in place for Harry.

Harry obliges him, his grip bruising as he continues to pound into Draco’s used arse. He drives his hips into Draco’s arse wildly, ramming his cock into Draco’s spot again and again. Tears fill Draco’s eyes as continued pleasure sparks throughout him in bursts, unintelligible sounds spilling from his lips. After several more thrusts, Harry comes, wet hot semen spilling into Draco’s hole.

Draco stays draped over the desk, body twitching from his own release as he takes all of Harry’s cum. Once finished, Harry stays there for a moment, allowing his cock to soften before he pulls out of Draco’s heat. They are both panting and breathless, bodies warm and sticky from exhaustion. Their arousal dissipates slowly, along with the atmosphere created for their little foray into roleplaying.

Harry speaks first. “Okay, darling?”

“Am I speaking to Headmaster Potter or Harry?” Draco cannot help but tease.

Harry lets out a breathless laugh before patting Draco's bum with a heavy hand. “Ha ha, you git. As though you didn’t just come.”

With slight difficulty, Draco peels himself off the desk and turns. Harry shuffles backwards to allow Draco some space, which Draco uses to seat himself on the table. His arse is sore and he can feel Harry’s spunk trailing out of him, but he ignores it in favour of gazing into Harry’s eyes. He cannot help but be tickled with fondness over the state of Harry’s glasses, fogged and hanging low on his nose. With care, Draco reaches up to remove them from Harry’s face, setting them aside.

Draco inspects Harry then, taking in the cut of his jaw and his strong features. Without his glasses, his viridian eyes are much more vivid, their colour intensified when not blocked by his usual lenses. Harry has always been handsome, Draco knows this. He may have been a bit awkward during their teenage years, but that clearly had not been a problem for the many students who found him attractive during their time at Hogwarts. Now though, Harry is gorgeous, made entirely of lean muscles and kissable lips and soft hair. Once again, Draco is struck by how lucky he is to be able to call this man his boyfriend.

“I haven’t said it today yet,” Draco mumbles, pushing aside Harry’s fringe tenderly.

Harry’s eyes glow in understanding, brightening considerably along with his countenance. Harry has told him that he is beautifully bright, gleaming whenever the sun hits him. But Harry is even better—he _is_ the sun. He doesn’t need any natural lighting to brighten up, always so effortlessly luminous in his looks and kindness. Draco may glisten under the sun, but that is only because Harry makes him shine.

Harry shakes his head and agrees, “Me neither.” He leans in to press a chaste kiss to Draco’s lips. “I love you.”

Draco smiles and replies with complete sincerity, “I love you too.” Harry does not resist when Draco pulls him into yet another kiss.

Merlin, does he really love Harry. He loves Harry with all his heart, body, and soul and it _hurts._ It is the sort of love that makes his chest ache and his head spin from the thought of it, its weight like a neverending pang in his heart. He cannot believe he ever once doubted his feelings for Harry in the past.

“I love you,” Draco repeats with reverence, and Harry swallows his words with another kiss. “I love you.”

It hasn’t always been easy for them, and it never will be, but _this_ is easy. Kissing Harry, caressing his hair, loving him. Draco could do this all day. In fact, he could do this for an eternity. His mind drifts to the box in the pocket of his robes, laying on the floor, and Draco knows that he _will_ do this forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand it's finally over ! i think im gonna go hibernate now lmao.
> 
> this chapter was really tricky to write since i meant it as an epilogue of sorts, so lots of stuff to catch up with in between where we last saw our boys but i really hope i gave an adequate enough conclusion. thank you guys again SO MUCH for all the love and patience !


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